Something Wicked This Way Comes
by RobinRocks
Summary: UKUS. The Turn-of-the-Century War rages and human-devouring creatures known as Nations feast on the humans who fight it. Too bad for Alfred Jones, consort of the Nation England, that he didn't disappear that night.
1. Ill Met By Moonlight

Well, well, well – come one, come all to my sixth annual Halloween fanfic event here on FFNet! This year _Hetalia: Axis Powers_, which I ironically hated this time last year, gets the dubious honour, slapped up here with a title snatched shamelessly from William Shakespeare's _Macbeth_.

(All the chapters will be named after quotes from Shakespeare to keep in the pattern of the overall fic title. This chapter's is "Ill met by moonlight", part of the first line spoken by Oberon, the king of the fairies, to his wife Titania, the queen, in _A Midsummer Night's Dream._)

Before we begin, a little about this fic: The original idea I had quite a few months ago was a oneshot. The principle idea was basically the same but the plot was, to put it frankly, complete bollocks. I thought it over for a while and resurfaced with this – a little gem of a storyline that does, unfortunately, need more than a oneshot format to do it justice. The fact is that I don't really have time to be embarking on another multi-chapter fic right now but it's either this or write the oneshot and the oneshot sucks so here we are. XD

In a similar manner to another of my 'Halloween specials' from a few years ago, _Nevarmore_ for the _Teen Titans_ section, this fic is a Victorian/Edwardian-set story in the vein of "oh noes people are dying in horrible and mysterious ways someone send for Buffy/Icabod Crane/Ghostbusters pls". Naturally this makes it an AU.

So here's where it gets interesting. It's an AU in the most literal sense of an AU – this is a world in which history is different. Very different. I won't reveal too much up here because I feel like my chapter ought to do that for me providing I wrote it properly but to set one thing perfectly straight before we start: The American Revolution hasn't happened. No, it didn't fail. It just hasn't happened yet.

However... the most "canon" thing about _Hetalia_ is the existence of characters as nations – as immortal representations of their countries. Now I've turned that on its head a little – this is a Halloween horror story, yanno – but the fact that "nations" exist is preserved in this fic.

Lastly... the main pairing of this fic is UKUS and therefore America and England feature very prominently in the story; however, in a really weird, roundabout way, the protagonist is actually sort of... Canada.

I don't how the fuck it happened either.

Something Wicked This Way Comes

Ill Met By Moonlight

"You take so long to get ready to retire," Alfred moaned, rolling over in bed and propping himself up on one elbow, watching Arthur carefully peeling away layer after layer of rich silk and richer velvet, unbuttoning this and unbuckling that. "If you did not insist on dressing up so, there would be no need for you to take this long."

Arthur paused, glancing briefly over his shoulder at him; he smiled that strange pretty smile at him, his green eyes gleaming.

Absinthe. After much consideration, that was what Alfred had concluded his eyes were akin to, that peculiar green glint that twinkled and darkened under different lights, all mysterious and forbidden and wrong.

It was something Alfred had been drinking of for much too long now.

"Your impatience is as amusing as always," Arthur sighed, turning away from him again. "Good things come to those who wait, my lovely boy."

"But I shall fall asleep if you do not make haste!" Alfred pouted, looking away briefly for something else to amuse himself with.

His gaze fell on the window. He squinted at the chink in the curtains. Light. Ah, that would never do. Morning light was particularly unforgiving if one was trying to drift off to sleep. He'd lie awake and stare at it all day if it was not dealt with.

He pushed back the covers and got out of bed again, picking up his glasses from the nightstand and slipping them on as he crossed to the window.

"You seem quite restless to me," Arthur pointed out calmly, finally getting down to his shirt.

"It's the light," Alfred explained, stretching up to catch at the heavy curtains and close the gap between them. There – that was better. Now, with only the gaslamp at the bedside to light the blacked-out bed chamber, it might as well have been night outside.

Alfred didn't particularly like being nocturnal but their routine demanded it and he supposed, after all these years, he really had gotten used to it. Every now and then he'd stay up past his bedtime to watch the sun rise, to trot through the marketplace with the bright morning glow on his face and in his hair, as he bought fresh apples or pears, one to eat on the walk home and one for his breakfast when they got up at seven that evening – and when he did it was always glorious, always wonderful. He couldn't help it. He loved the sun.

Arthur didn't. Oh, he wasn't allergic to it or anything. It didn't hurt him, didn't make his flesh burn and twist and melt. There was no call for them to be nocturnal other than the fact that it was much easier to get away with their lifestyle at night. The clock struck midnight and everything began to get weird and sordid and perfectly acceptable.

And Arthur needed to eat, after all.

(Speaking of...)

Alfred went to the wardrobe and opened it, putting a hand on his hip and rolling his eyes as the corpse slid and half tumbled to the floor. It was a young man, not much more than a boy, with pale blonde hair and wide eyes permanently welded open in terror. The blood at his throat and at his belly had congealed already, dark clots of gunk festering around the wounds that had killed him. Finnish, they had decided. Tino something. They'd found him walking alone late last night, close to midnight, and Arthur had been very hungry by then.

("Scandinavian," Arthur noted in a low voice, sniffing the air. "Finnish, if I'm not much mistaken. I'm certain I smell Swedish on him, though..."

"Finnish," Alfred repeated breathily, his hand closing around the hilt of his knife. "Will that do?"

"Certainly," Arthur replied, daintily taking off his white silk gloves. "I cannot recall if I've eaten Finnish before. It will make a pleasant change.")

"England," Alfred said, nudging the body with his bare foot, "are you going to finish this?"

Arthur, who had been much closer to him than Alfred had realised, embraced him from behind.

"My, my, America," he hummed against his spine, the sound tremoring through Alfred's core like a dragonfly. "I do believe that you just made a joke."

"Wha...?" Alfred blinked. "Oh, right. Finish, Finnish." He laughed, feeling Arthur's arms constrict more tightly around his chest. "Well, are you?"

Arthur exhaled and looked around Alfred's shoulder at the corpse.

"I suppose I might pick at him later," he said thoughtfully. "Truth be told, however, he doesn't taste terribly good – nothing at all like that delicious little Italian priest we picked off last week. The German he was with was bloody awful, though. They _all_ were – he was the only one that tasted any good. I couldn't stomach even a bite of the others. A lot of the prey seems to be that way these days. Too much of this blasted industrialism smog in their blood and bones, one might say. If I wanted my meat smoked, I'd go to the butcher's, would I not?"

"Does that mean we're going hunting again tonight?" Alfred sighed.

"Perhaps. We shall see. I might not be hungry."

"Well, I do wish you would make up your mind about these things beforehand," Alfred said. "If I do not need the rest for tonight then perhaps I might go and spend a few hours outside during the day."

"In whose company, America?" Arthur asked sweetly. "You have no friends. You only have me."

"Perhaps I shall make some!" Alfred replied haughtily. "Or... or perhaps _you_ might join me, England! We could go for a walk, we could—"

"Enough," Arthur cut in curtly, "of your peculiar brand of fantasies, boy. You know as well as I do that I cannot possibly govern when I shall be hungry and when I shan't. Now come."

He kissed Alfred's bare shoulder, scraping his teeth – just sharper than a human's – over the bone of the blade, making Alfred shudder half in delight and half in fear.

He'd seen what those teeth could do, after all. And those hands – the ones currently rubbing possessive circles on his belly before briefly dipping lower, just enough to make his knees buckle a bit.

"To bed with you," Arthur whispered in his ear, "and I shall make it worth your while."

* * *

The Danish man was good at telling stories.

Matthew didn't know his name but he liked to listen to him; in the evenings in the tavern, everyone would cluster around the loud, boisterous, expressive Dane and cling to his every word. He certainly had a very vivid imagination, his sagas ranging from fanciful fairytales that he invented on the spot to supposedly-true stories about his own adventures – often to be taken with a pinch of salt, of course, given that he claimed that he had beheaded dragons and slain ogres with the very axe he always left sitting by the fireplace. Still, even his blatant lies were thoroughly entertaining.

Nobody noticed Matthew, of course. It was easy for him to float at the edges of the crowd, unseen and unheard, drinking in every word whilst he waited for Francis, who knew practically every patron who frequented the place. The last time Matthew had seen him, he had been talking to Roderich and leering at Elizaveta, the two respective halves of the married couple who owned the tavern. Now, however, Matthew glanced briefly at the bar and saw only Elizaveta wiping it down, being hassled by Gilbert Beilschmidt as she did so. There was no sign of Roderich and no sign of Francis.

Not too worried – Francis was practically famous for disappearing – Matthew turned his attention back to the Dane and his adoring audience, sipping at his mug of hot spiced wine as he listened.

"And so," the storyteller said, getting to the conclusion of his last tale – a strange, sad, beautiful story about a mermaid who gave up everything for the love of a human prince and an immortal soul – "being that she loved him so, she could not kill him, even though it would have saved her life and turned her back into a mermaid; instead she threw herself over the side of the wedding ship, where her body turned to the foam that crowns the waves."

There was applause. The Dane grinned and gave a mocking bow. There were toasts to him and somebody called for more beer to wet their beloved bard's throat. Matthew clapped quietly at the back but no-one looked at him.

"Another, another!" called a soldier, raising his glass. His friends and comrades cheered his suggestion.

Soldiers. That was right. The war. Matthew glanced around. Continent Army, by the looks of it. That made sense, too. There were a lot of them in here tonight. They had to be on leave.

"Another?" the Dane mused, taking a fresh mug of beer brought to him by a barmaid. "Alright, let me think. Three tales I have told tonight have been unreal. What say you fellows to one with a dash of truth to it?"

More cheering and clapping. The Danish storyteller took a huge swig of his beer and set it down heavily next to him, taking a deep breath.

"Fine," he said with a grin. "Here's one for you. It happened right here in this plain little town thirteen years ago – a quiet town it was, you see, nothing weird or wonderful, nothing strange or supernatural ever happened until this one night. Of course, you might say back then was the beginning of the war – or the seeds of it beginning to be planted, at least. This particular night, two Empire Army generals – husband and wife – were brutally murdered in their home, torn to pieces by a strange creature who charmed his way over their threshold with the looks and act of a perfect gentleman. He killed them both, trained soldiers that they were, and ripped them open as though he was searching for something. Then his attention fell upon the children – two children, you see. Twin boys. They were six years old."

Matthew dropped his mug. No-one looked at him.

"Now you may think you know where this is going," the Dane went on, slamming a fist down on the table and making several patrons around him jump. "You think this vile beast devoured the children there and then, do you not? _Wrong_! I agree that that might be a better conclusion to the tale but this tale is true and so, with regret, I inform you that the creature merely took one of the children that night and stole him away. The other child was left absolutely untouched and, being orphaned, grew up in the care of our own Francis Bonnefoy. Some of you may even know this young protégé, though it must be said that he is easy to overlook." The storyteller here dropped his voice. "And what of the boy taken that fateful night? Did he meet a terrible end mere hours afterwards – do his half-eaten bones lie concealed in the woods somewhere still? Or perhaps still he resides with our fiendish friend, who disappeared that night with nary a trace left behind of his wicked presence? Indeed, to this day, whilst the tale of what happened that night spread all through the town – for many saw the creature that evening, a bewildering stranger with an intoxicating presence and eyes like that banned poison absinthe – all they ever found of him was his calling card. He was sent by the Empire Army." The Danish man rubbed his hands together gleefully. "Generals Washington and Liberty Jones were, of course, North Americans – part of the Empire, wearing the Empire Army's uniform. It was an assassination – but to what end? Therein the mystery still lies."

There was silence. The storyteller leaned back in satisfaction and took up his beer again, drinking long and deep. Matthew shakily got up and left the crowd. No-one noticed him go.

Outside, he threw up into the drain. It wasn't the wine. God, God, _God_, _why_ couldn't people forget about that terrible night? True, it was the town's only real gossip, a brutal mystery well over a decade old that had never been solved; nothing like it had ever happened before or since. But even so, it was no excuse, _none at all_, for him to be able to begin to push it out of his mind only for some damned baker or butcher or storyteller in a tavern to dig it up again and wave it in his face. Every now and then he heard snatches of the story, more and more garbled every time, flung between passers-by; it lived on in the brutal hearsay of the townsfolk even all these years later.

The Dane, of course, had told that story merely for the benefit of the soldiers, most of whom were not from the town. Everyone else knew the tale. _Everyone_. It was almost as though they were glad it had happened, that Matthew had clung to his brother and his brother to him as they had cowered in the corner and seen their parents murdered in front of them – and then that the creature had risen and approached them, had taken very firm hold of his brother and pulled them apart, had lifted his chosen child up and wrapped him carefully in his cloak and then had very calmly walked out—

That Alfred hadn't screamed or struggled or cried.

Matthew leaned against the tavern wall and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. Alfred was dead. Of course he was dead. That thing had probably eaten him before even a day had gone by. Two fully-grown adult army generals hadn't stood a chance against that creature. What kind of hope in hell would a six-year-old boy have had? Matthew couldn't _stand_ the horror and revulsion and pain that welled in him when he thought of that night, when he remembered and realised that he was the only one of the family left, that his twin had been dead for thirteen years, no doubt ripped apart in the same fashion as their parents by that beast who showed up out of nowhere—

"There you are!"

The voice addressing him was abrasive, thickly-accented and familiar. Matthew opened his eyes and found Lovino Vargas standing in front of him, scowling and with his arms folded.

"I was sent to find you!" Lovino snapped. "Bonnefoy said you were down in the tavern but when I go to fetch you, are you there?"

"S-sorry," Matthew mumbled, pushing off the wall.

"Well, come on," Lovino went on sharply, turning on his heel. "Bonnefoy wants you. Bastard Antonio and I only just arrived and I was immediately sent on errands – first to fetch that moronic Beilschmidt and then to find you! I am not a messenger boy and I shall be sure to tell that tomato-bastard exactly that when I return!"

There didn't seem to be much point in interrupting the irritable Italian's rant, so Matthew just nodded politely as he followed him back into the tavern (glancing briefly at the Dane, who was engaged in telling yet _another_ story), out into the hall and up the narrow, rickety staircase that led to the room upstairs. Lovino muttered hotly to himself all the way, Matthew catching a profanity here and there but realising, after a moment, that Antonio Carriedo's apprentice was actually speaking Italian, no longer bothering to even try and accommodate Matthew by using the English he had a moment ago. Matthew doubted that Lovino knew any French, although he'd heard him speaking Spanish with Antonio many times, his tone no different to this one.

The room upstairs was small and empty – Roderich and Elizaveta lived next door to the tavern and let this room gather dust between allowing the "Bad Friends Trio", as they had taken to dubbing themselves, to use it as a meeting place. Their meetings were actually somewhat seldom; since being taken on officially by the Continent Army, the trio were not often together, sent on missions to different parts of the world on behalf of the army's interests as the war spread across the globe like wildfire.

The "Bad" part of their title was also (Matthew had always felt) sort of ironic. Sure, they weren't exactly model citizens – but they weren't _bad_, per se, and their self-invented occupation, the one that had caught the Continent Army's attention in the first place, was not without its merits.

Dedicating themselves to hunting down and capturing those demonic creatures – Nations – wasn't a bad thing in Matthew's opinion—

Particularly since it had been a Nation that had murdered his parents and his brother all those years ago.

Luckily they weren't terribly common – Matthew had, in fact, only ever seen Francis and his partners capture one in all the time he'd been with him – but being a hunter of them was, in part, also being a detective. The chase could go on for years given that Nations were very, very good at covering their tracks. Oh, and that they often killed those who hunted them. _More_ than often.

Shutting the door behind him, Matthew stepped into the room with Lovino. The other three were already assembled and there was a grave silence overhanging the gathering; even loud-mouthed Gilbert was quiet, not bragging about how he had fought off three Nations single-handedly with but a toothpick as a weapon only the night before.

This didn't look good. Matthew went to Francis' side, speaking to him in low, gentle French as Lovino stormed straight up to Antonio and began to assail him in Spanish.

"Has something happened?" Matthew asked. "The atmosphere amongst you seems so very... sombre."

"We shall get to it," Francis replied in a hushed tone, reaching back and pulling the black ribbon from his hair as he spoke, letting it fall loosely around his shoulders. "As you know, Antonio has only just arrived back from Rome. He has some dreadful news."

Matthew felt his heart sink. Not much got these three down, not even the things they saw in their occupation, not even the ongoing bloodshed of the Turn-of-the-Century War. He stayed close to Francis, fidgeting idly with the hem of his waistcoat, but his gaze fell upon Lovino, who was being held by his elbows by Antonio and being spoken to in firm, quiet Spanish. He appeared to have stilled and quietened, although he was still scowling considerably. In his brown shirt and matching breeches and boots, he looked very drab against Antonio – who, as usual, was regaled in the scarlets and golds native to his homeland.

Gilbert, leaning against the wall with his arms folded, gave a deep sigh. He had no apprentice like Antonio and Francis, often proclaiming that he had never come across a lonely orphaned whelp deserving enough of his tuition, although he _did_ have a companion, an odd little bird that sometimes sat his shoulder and sometimes sat on his head.

Matthew glanced at Gilbert. He didn't look very happy. At all.

"Antonio!" Gilbert spoke sharply. "Get on with it, for pity's sake! I do not know how much longer you intend to make me brace myself to hear your tale of woe once more!"

Antonio let go of Lovino, straightened himself and cleared his throat.

"Very well," he said. "Lovi, you must listen closely, for what I have to say is unpleasant and I know it will anger and upset you."

Lovino scowled deeper but Matthew noticed the slight veil of worry flicker over his set features. Unnerved – because it was unlike Antonio to be so serious – Matthew reached for Francis' hand, clutching at it nervously; Francis closed his around it comfortingly and gave it a squeeze.

"As you all well know, I have just returned from Morocco, near the frontlines of the war," Antonio went on. "I was sent by the Continent Army on a lead regarding the whereabouts of our number one priority, the Nation known as England. Alas! I arrived too late. Our devilish friend had long since departed and left in his wake two entire Continent Army companies, torn to pieces as is his particular method, and..."

He paused, briefly glancing at Lovino.

"Spit it out, for God's sake!" Gilbert exploded, pushing off the wall. "You cannot protect him from it! Mein _Gott_, was _my_ brother not torn to shreds as well?"

Lovino's amber eyes widened. Matthew felt his stomach plummet somewhere down near his feet.

"Lovino," Antonio said briskly, grabbing at Lovino again in an attempt to repair the damage caused by Gilbert's outburst. "Your brother, Feliciano, was sent by the church he was serving in to help at the frontlines, nursing the injured soldiers."

"I know," Lovino said dully. "I know that, stupid bastard. He wrote to me and told me. He was very excited."

"Well..." Antonio took a deep breath. "He went out to fetch water that night, accompanied by a friend of his – well, you know him. Gilbert's brother, Major Ludwig Beilschmidt. It seems that they were the first to be killed, picked off less than a mile from the camp on their way back. The Nation devoured almost... well, almost all of his organs."

"So he fed on little Feli," Gilbert hummed dangerously. "You said he barely took a bite out of West?"

Antonio nodded, turning his attention away from Lovino (who, Matthew noticed, was quivering silently, his pale fists clenched at his sides).

"And the rest. He simply killed them – probably just carrying out his orders, I expect. But he was hungry when he killed Feliciano."

"It must have been orders," Gilbert agreed gruffly. "Two whole companies is excessive, even for a Nation. They tend not to kill on a full stomach, either – for him to have done it _after_ he had eaten would be strange unless he had been given the order by the Empire Army to do so."

"Two whole companies seems excessive anyway," Francis pointed out; Matthew glanced at him, the news barely sinking in even now. "Are you quite certain that he was alone?"

Antonio glanced at him.

"He must have been," he said. "I saw no trace whatsoever of Empire Army soldiers and I do not know of any other Nations in the Empire Army's arsenal. We already captured Russia four years ago and handed him over to the Continent Generals—"

Lovino screamed and threw himself at Antonio, pounding furiously at his chest. He wailed at him in Italian, his tone and expression and body language so, _so_ angry – but he was crying, too, the tears streaming down his face and his chest bucking with the effort of shouting and sobbing at the same time.

The only word Matthew could pick out was a strangled screech of "fratello!" over and over again.

Antonio put his arms around Lovino and pulled him close to his chest; Lovino fought him at first, kicking and scratching, twisting madly in his arms, but Antonio held on and eventually Lovino fell still in his grasp, weeping more quietly. For a long moment, his stifled sobs were the only sound in the room.

Matthew didn't know what to say except perhaps "I know how you feel"; but he said nothing because it wasn't the time or the place to say it, really. Despite the fact that it hurt to have Danes bringing it up in casual conversation, using it as a fireside horror-story, Matthew's pain had dulled over the years. Lovino's – and Gilbert's, perhaps, even if he wouldn't show it – was fresh and raw and new and ugly.

"Well," Gilbert said suddenly, shattering the spell, "sitting about here weeping and wailing about it won't get us that bastard Nation's head on a stick. Antonio, are you heading back out there?"

Antonio glanced at him, stroking Lovino's hair.

"Yes," he said. "I have no army missions at present, so I had planned to go back out to the frontlines. There have been no more reports of any more massacres along the frontlines but the Nation is likely on an assignment to kill as many of our soldiers as possible and is perhaps biding his time before striking again when the soldiers feel safe once more and let down their guard. The frontlines seem the best place to hunt him."

"I shall join you," Gilbert said firmly. "Two heads – and two guns – are better than one." He looked at Francis. "And what of you, Francis?"

Francis shook his head apologetically.

"I cannot join you, I am afraid," he said. "I am stationed here. You know this is where the soldiers on leave return to. This town is my protectorate."

"Well, I suppose it's good to have someone to hold down the fort," Antonio sighed; he looked down at Lovino. "Lovi, given that this is not an official assignment from the army, having you with us would not be a problem. I would be greatly honoured if you would join us."

Lovino didn't speak but, after a long moment, he nodded into Antonio's chest.

"Then we shall be a trio after all," Gilbert noted dryly. He started towards the door. "I expect we leave on the morrow?"

"That would be for the best," Antonio said. "It would be in our interest to catch the first train in the morning, given that it will be several days' travelling."

Gilbert nodded.

"Very well," he said stiffly. "I shall meet you at the station first thing. For now, gentlemen, goodnight."

He bowed mockingly to them and left the room, banging the old door behind him. There was a spell of silence in his absence; even Lovino had gone quiet, but was still clinging to Antonio, something which Matthew had never seen him do before. He supposed that it was a good thing that Lovino at least sought comfort in Antonio's arms – he'd always felt that the two were probably closer than Lovino liked to pretend with his aggressive behaviour.

Francis moved closer to the pair, pulling Matthew with him by the hand.

"Lovino, mon cher," Francis said in a low voice, putting a hand on Lovino's shoulder, "I am deeply sorry for your loss. I was very fond of your brother."

Lovino shrugged his hand away.

"Yes, we all know how fond _you_ were of him, wine-bastard," he snarled. "Keep your hands to yourself and your toy."

Matthew flinched a bit at his abrasiveness but neither Francis nor Antonio seemed particularly perturbed by Lovino's tone; their gazes met.

"Be safe, mon ami," Francis said.

"And you, mi amor," Antonio replied.

Francis leaned in and kissed Antonio on the mouth; Matthew had seen him do it before and knew it was just a (peculiar) gesture of friendship between them. Lovino, conversely, was irritated by the action and parted them forcibly, pushing Francis away and swearing at him in Italian.

"Ah, I see we have outstayed our welcome," Francis said glibly. "Come, then, Mathieu. Let us depart. Antonio, Lovino, au revoir." He blew them both a kiss and led Matthew away briskly before he could say goodbye himself, pushing him down the narrow staircase before him as Antonio called something indistinct after Francis in Spanish.

"Mathieu," Francis purred, switching back to French as they entered the street and wrapping an arm about his young apprentice, "you must not be so shy. Why, you did not endeavour to speak even a word. It is no wonder that people take no notice of you."

Matthew pulled away from Francis and moved to stand in front of him in the deserted misty street; looking at his master, his saviour, in all of his grandeur, his long blue coat embellished with gold, his silk necktie of deepest purple with his favourite pearl pin, his velvet waistcoat and white leather boots—

He worked for the Continent Army but he had Empire in him somewhere. Matthew didn't know why he felt it but he did and always had.

"Very well," Matthew said icily, drawing his own pale cream-coloured coat around himself. "I shall speak out, Francis. Why is it that the beast which killed my parents and my brother is still at large thirteen years later – and at large enough to be devouring the brothers of our companions?"

Francis kneaded at his forehead.

"Mathieu, pray do not be so unfair," he said wearily. "You know well that the business of capturing Nations is not an easy one. Do you think I would allow England to run free if I had the choice? The fact is that I have not even _seen_ him since that night thirteen years ago. For years he disappeared without a trace. It is only recently, with the outbreak of the war, that he has appeared again on our doorsteps to torment us. Also, you must remember that he is in the service of the Empire – it is his shield."

Matthew didn't back down, even when Francis got walking again and stepped past him.

"You do not think that he is alone, either," he said.

Francis paused, glancing back at Matthew in the dull light of the gaslamp swinging in the breeze a few feet away.

"Well, that might be jumping to conclusions," he admitted, "but the fact is that I do not believe that your twin is dead."

* * *

"You'll kill me!" Alfred cried, throwing his head back against the pillow. "Oh, how my heart hammers fit to burst – England, I swear to you that you shall kill me!"

"Ah?" England lifted his head from between Alfred's legs. "How so, my boy?" His tongue flickered across Alfred's inner thigh, making him writhe. "With pleasure, you insinuate?"

"Yes, yes," Alfred panted. "Death or madness – either, either!"

"Oh, you are so dramatic," Arthur sighed; he breathed the words out against Alfred's thigh and lower still, feeling him squirm again. "Still, your waxing poetic at times like these has always amused me. How quick and ready you are to confuse death with pleasure, pleasure with death. You quite remind me of that poet who shares your North American blood, Edgar Allan Poe. I very much enjoyed his recitations in Massachusetts and New York before his untimely death some fifty-odd years ago."

"Y-you attended them?" Alfred stammered, propping himself up enough to look down at Arthur.

"Naturally," Arthur hummed. "When I was in the area, of course." He laughed gently. "Do you forget my age at times, America?"

Alfred grinned at him.

"No," he replied. "I recall that you are an old man – how could I forget?"

Arthur smirked, his green eyes positively glittering with a delighted tint of malice.

"How indeed," he agreed, "when all I seek is to devour you for your youth?"

"Is that all?" Alfred teased. "Do you only want to eat me?"

"Of course – though I admit that I do not usually take the time to admire my meal quite so much as this." He ran his gaze appreciatively over Alfred's naked form. "You really are quite lovely, America."

"What, all marked like this?" Alfred's fingers ghosted mockingly over a few of the permanent rose-shaped scars scattered over his body – one low on his neck, one at his shoulder, one over his heart, one floating just under his navel. "You see beauty in these blemishes?"

"Of course, since _I_ was the one to put them there." Arthur kissed the one closest to him – on the inside of Alfred's right thigh, close to his knee-joint. "These are your birthday presents, given once a year to mark the anniversary of the day you became mine. Counting this year's, you have thirteen." He took Alfred's left wrist, turned it up and kissed the bloom there too. "The rose is my flower – my thirteen claims upon you take its shape. Lovelier blemishes you will never see, I quite assure you."

His blonde head dipped again; struck speechless, Alfred couldn't see what he was doing but moments later he felt the hot breath on his dick, the slick swathe of tongue and sudden scrape of teeth against his swollen sensitive flesh—

Oh, those teeth, those hands that spread now over his thighs, stroking him in time with the flicks of talented tongue – Alfred had seen what they could do. He had seen them devour women, tear apart men; this was what he did, this was what Arthur Kirkland did – England, Britain, British Empire, this godawful creature whom Alfred loved more than anything. He lulled you into a secret sense of security with his lovely voice and his charming manners, with his bewitching eyes and his promise-sewn smile, you fell into his arms and into his lies, you opened your door or purse or legs for him and then his voice and manners and eyes and smile completely changed and he murdered you, oh, _how_ he murdered you, swift but spectacular, silent but sensational (and if he was especially hungry sometimes he started eating you before you were even dead—)

Alfred had seen it. He'd seen it hundreds of times. And he wasn't afraid.

After all, he trusted Arthur to not eat him.

Still, Arthur was hungry. His scant nibbling at the unsavoury Finn hadn't satisfied his appetite at all and it was obvious in the way he used his mouth on Alfred now, interested in every vein, every fold, every swell, exploring Alfred as though he'd never tasted him before; his tongue pressed against the root of Alfred's dick as he went lower, over his balls, a hot wet swipe at his entrance and then higher again, Alfred wincing as he felt those sharp teeth graze his sac and then—

"Ow!" Alfred kicked at him. "Don't _bite_!"

Arthur laughed, clearly amused, and glanced up to meet Alfred's gaze; those guilty teeth flashed in his grin.

"Do you not trust me?" he sang.

"O-of course I do," Alfred replied, still with his foot pressed against Arthur's hip, ready to shove him away if he tried to pounce. "But sometimes... sometimes I think you forget just how sharp your teeth are, you know. Not down there, please."

"Ah, not where it is sensitive?" Arthur hummed, sinking a third time. "You have no adventure about you, boy – but here, I shall kiss it better."

He did indeed press a kiss to the tip of Alfred's cock, just enough to make him sink back to the bed with a groan; Alfred's head hit the pillow again as Arthur finally made good on his teasing promise and took him into his mouth, wrapping his tongue around him. His teeth – with edges like needles – scraped again as he moved his head and Alfred groaned, his heart pounding heavier still and his back arching off the mattress. His hips pushed up into Arthur's every ministration almost without his consent, his whole body quivering, shuddering with the shockwaves that radiated throughout him as Arthur sucked and licked and nipped at him, positively _savoured_ him.

Of course, Alfred knew nothing about human lovemaking. He had been sleeping with Arthur for years but Arthur had been his first and only; Arthur, with inhuman strength and sharp nails and teeth like knives. His jaw, too, was exceptionally strong, rendering him able to pull and tear at flesh and bones and innards without the help of a blade if he was particularly starving. He had bruised Alfred with kisses and blowjobs before – cut him, too, with his teeth, with his claws, cracked a rib or two whilst being too rough.

Those teeth. Alfred knew that all Arthur had to do was snap his mouth shut and he'd castrate him; he'd probably swallow it too, the bastard...

As though reading his mind (and Alfred had never been entirely sure that Arthur _was_ incapable of intercepting his thoughts), Arthur suddenly shifted forwards and Alfred felt himself slip partway down his throat; hot, narrow confines that had given way to gore earlier that night, Alfred had watched him kill and eat Tino with the same strange, horrified fascination he always did, and to be _fucking_ that throat, to have his cock where usually only the torn bloodied flesh that satisfied Arthur's grotesque appetite passed fleetingly as he swallowed it—

Alfred shuddered and came very suddenly, shivering long after he fell still on the sheets; he felt Arthur swallow around him and was suddenly frightened enough to pull back himself, his limp wretched dick drenched with saliva, a morsel Arthur had more-or-less spat out because he didn't want it anymore, having taken everything good from it.

Arthur kneeled back and wiped his mouth on his sleeve; he tilted his head and smirked at Alfred.

"Well," he said quietly, "_that_ was interesting." He leaned forwards again, his hands pressing to the mattress either side of Alfred's chest, and kissed his belly, tongue dipping teasingly into his navel. "I suppose it is high time you began to show signs of stirring."

"Do... do not be so ridiculous," Alfred panted, looking away. He lifted one bare foot and put it against Arthur's crotch, toes curling against it in search of arousal. "Ah, sh-shall we...?"

"No." Arthur pushed Alfred's foot away at the exact moment that Alfred realised his monstrous lover was not aroused in the slightest. "Not tonight, love. Truth be told, I am really rather hungry."

"That's because you did not eat your supper," Alfred huffed.

"I know, it is my own fault," Arthur conceded pleasantly, reaching behind him and surfacing with Alfred's underwear. "But he was, as I said at the time, bloody awful. Now come along, put your knickers back on so that you do not tempt me." He took Alfred's feet, one at a time, and fed them through the legs of his underwear, pulling them up to his knees. "I think you can do the rest yourself."

He slid off the bed, leaving Alfred to sulkily pull his underwear back up.

"I do not see why everything we do has to be governed by your peculiar eating habits," Alfred grumbled, getting under the covers and watching Arthur finally undo his belt and slip out of his breeches.

"Oh, America," Arthur sighed impatiently, not looking at him, "I have told you why time and time again. For Nations, our greatest pleasure is the kill – and we do, of course, kill to eat, feeding by and large on humans. If I am hungry, the pleasure of intercourse will, without a doubt, trigger my instinct to kill and eat whatever I am fucking – and if you do not wish for that 'whatever' to be _you_, then we will continue our regime of only having requited relations when I am full."

"But _I_ am not human either!" Alfred said earnestly. "You have told me so yourself so many times that I cannot count! I am a Nation too – _America_, remember? That is what you call me. Why, I cannot _recollect_ that last time you called me by my birth-name."

"Even so," Arthur said blandly, "that would not stop me taking a bite out of you. I have killed other Nations before."

Alfred gave a disgusted groan and rolled over, facing the wall.

"But your strange diet is inconvenient," he muttered. "I am a Nation too and yet I have no overwhelming desire to eat every living thing that comes within two feet of me."

(Even if... God, well, the whispers in his brain, the fact that he had orgasmed on the knowledge that Arthur had murdered and devoured an innocent young man earlier that night—)

"Well, no," Arthur agreed breathily, leaning over Alfred and kissing him on the cheek – a sweet, gentle little gesture that belied the monster lurking beneath that lovely face, that charismatic smile and those intoxicating absinthian eyes. "That is because you have yet to be awakened, America."

* * *

sharp teeth are sharp and absinthe eyes are absinthe, yo.

Tch, Let me have my fun. At least my own quasi-original take on the notion of "pre-existing (more or less) fictional monster" isn't 'and when he went out into the sunlight, he sparkled like Tinker-Bell had sneezed all over him'. XD

Well, absinthe seemed like a good comparison for the (in-canon) green eyes of this creature that Alfred can't help but be drawn to; absinthe suffers from demonisation, having been accused of being hallucinatory and dangerous and god knows what else, and had in fact been banned in North America and most of Europe well before WWI.

The exception? Great Britain. Apparently we never banned it because that's how we roll. Or something.

"The Dane" is, of course, Denmark. Denmark, who has no human name. Poor, poor Denmark. :( Incidentally, the first story he was telling was the original 'The Little Mermaid' by Hans Christian Anderson – a Dane. ^^ My head-canon for _Hetalia_ is a wonderful place where Denmark, Germany and England are all really good at telling stories because the former has Anderson, the middle has the Brothers Grimm and the latter (us) has... well, Shakespeare, King Arthur and Robin Hood, amongst other things. Need I go on? XD

That said, I bet Greece has a good story or two to tell when he's not busy sleeping(withjapanlol).

As I said up top, this is an AU in the "literal" sense of an Alternate Universe (I'm sure you've gathered that by now) but it notably contains parallels to actual history (read: _Hetalia_'s canon storyline). The most important example in this chapter was the place England killed Italy – Morocco, which is, as I'm sure you know, in North Africa. ^^

Also, America's thirteen marks – England's claims of ownership on him – ought to be pretty self-explanatory. As a note, the rose is the national flower of both England and the United States.

Don't hold your breath for more of Spain, Romano and Prussia – I may surprise myself but for now I'm fairly confident that I was getting rid of them by sending them back to the frontlines. There will be much, much more of France and Canada, though. Yayz!

Well, I think that is all for now! Thankyou for reading the first chapter of my little Halloween wannabe spook-fest. Hope you all have a wonderful day today, whatever you do! Halloween greetings from YaoiCon in beautiful San Francisco, California, USA!

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!11111!111111!1

RobinRocks

xXx

P.S: I'm certain this is obvious but just fyi: England is NOT a vampire. (Nor is he a cannibal since he's not human himself. Just throwing that out there.)

P.P.S: YES AN EDGAR ALLAN POE REFERENCE SHUT UP AND LEAVE ME ALONE I LIKE HIM


	2. Thy Rotten Jaws

Ohhh, _SWTWC_, my poor baby. I haven't updated you since Halloween 2010. I _knew_ this would happen to you. I totally called it. D:

Guys, this fic is going to be slow-going update-wise, as should be obvious by now. The poor thing always gets shunted to the back of my ficcage queue. However, this chapter finally made it after many longs months of patiently waiting its turn to be written and I really hope you a.) enjoy it and b.) feel that it was worth the wait! Please forgive me. It's been crying in the Unloved and Unwanted Corner alongside _The Ghost in the Machine_ for a while now, haha – and as with _The Ghost in the Machine_, while updates will be slow, I really am determined to get it done come hell or high water. Booyah.

Thank you to: **TheWonderBunny, Insane-Writer-of-Doom, andthenshesaid, Peirl, WhiteCrow10, Anastasya Debbie, Charles Grey, Kita Kitsune, OneWithManyNames, YourFloatingAngel, Koi Fish, PikaNecoMico, TenkunoMeiou, ileana425, critter141151, Chibi Chibi Sami, Keyboard Smash, silimanchiflavor, mudkiprox, Threnna, Altair718, rae1112, xCherryFever, tAcOfAiL13, Synonymous Brian **and **Mia**!

Today's Shakespearean title, 'Thy Rotten Jaws', is from my favourite, _Romeo and Juliet_. The line is spoken by Romeo... to Juliet's tomb. XD

Something Wicked This Way Comes

Thy Rotten Jaws

"Wait here," Arthur breathed, leaning in close to Alfred's ear. "I shan't be long. Be a love and keep watch for me."

"Ah, al-alright."

Alfred didn't have much of a choice; Arthur trotted lightly away from him, his thick travelling cloak (glossy velvet with a shimmering interior of finest silk) fanning out behind him over the silver-frost ground. The clock had just struck eight and it was already dark, the moon high and bright in the clear sky. For them, it was breakfast time—

And Arthur, his green eyes a much duller shade than they had been this morning, was hungry.

Alfred glanced up and down the gaslit street for any sort of law-enforcement figure. Nothing; in fact, there were very few passers-by at all. This area, not the best in the town, was really confined to various types of nightwalkers, the kinds of people who nobody looked twice at, who wouldn't be missed, and was an excellent hunting-ground. They didn't make too great a habit of it lest they draw suspicion – but Arthur always veered in this direction if he was particularly starving upon waking and couldn't wait.

Alfred leaned as nonchalantly as possible against a streetlamp as Arthur approached one of the girls. Though he couldn't hear him, he knew he was laying on the gentlemanly act, taking off his top hat to greet her, charming in his manner in a bid to get her to accompany him down some dark alleyway. This particular girl looked a little rough around the edges, her low-cut red dress rather bedraggled and her hair somewhat unkempt, but her worn face, which might once have been very pretty, broke into a smile as Arthur spoke in low and luscious tones to her. At length he offered her his hand and gestured vaguely to a nearby alley, smiling handsomely at her all the while; she did not hesitate in the slightest, slipping her small hand into his and allowing him to lead her off the street.

Alfred quietly followed, taking up guard at the entrance to the narrow, crooked alleyway, his back pressed against the wall. He could hear Arthur's voice, the clipped smoothness of his accent, muttering something to the girl, probably some filthy promise he had no intention of fulfilling as he lathed his tongue over her neck and got his first taste of her. The girl moaned a little, panted, and Alfred heard the shifting of heavy material, likely the swish of her skirts as she was relieved of them. Alfred checked the street again as the girl gasped. Nothing—

A sharp little cry. Arthur had bitten her, no doubt.

There was his voice again, tumbling easily over his lips like a brook. Apologising. Alfred folded his arms and looked up at the sky. Arthur didn't mean a fucking word of it.

More rustling. The two-step of changing positions. The girl whispered something. She was enjoying herself—

Operative word being _was_.

She gave a sudden gurgling scream, more than muffled by Arthur's quickness, his expertise, in silencing his victims; there was an audible _snap_, a _thud_ and then a sudden moment of silence.

And pleasure pulsed through Alfred's body.

Arthur was beginning to eat already, sinking his sharp teeth deep into her warm flesh and pulling – Alfred could feel it, feel every rend and tear at the girl-turned-meal shudder throughout his frame in an echo of the delight Arthur was getting from feeding. Arthur was a beast for whom even sexual pleasure was second to filling his belly with someone who had died screaming and the bliss for him in doing so was such that it resonated off him in waves. Alfred, this self-same creature (dormant though he may have been) couldn't help but feel that burst of sensation shiver within his own body. It knotted at his own stomach – empty itself – and simmered in his crotch, making his knees buckle together. He leaned his head back against the wall and fought to stay upright, his breath flaring out through his nose as he bit at his bottom lip. His eyes were squeezed shut behind his glasses.

_Hurry up, England_, he thought desperately. His breeches were beginning to grow tight and he twisted his hands behind his back to stop them from touching, from rubbing, from unfastening. It was an utterly unnatural spike in his libido, only occurring recently and at times like these, but it was torture. All he wanted to do was turn and rut against the wall to release the pressure, matching the thrusts in time to Arthur's every mouthful—

And then, just as suddenly, it stopped. Footsteps; Alfred hastily straightened himself up, twitching his cloak about himself, as Arthur emerged from the alleyway. He was completely unruffled, not a speck of blood anywhere on his person, and he tilted his hat to just the right angle as he glanced at Alfred.

His eyes were back to their usual-unusual blazing green.

"Better?" Alfred asked weakly.

Arthur nodded.

"Very much so," he said. He offered Alfred his arm. "Thank you for your patience, America. Shall we proceed? It is not fair for me to have had my hunger sated when you have not yet broken fast yourself."

Alfred took his arm and they continued down the street, heading towards the brighter, more acceptable part of town (the sort of place beings like them didn't exactly belong).

"Did you enjoy that?" Arthur asked in a low voice.

Alfred blinked at him; colour flushed into his face and he looked away, embarrassed. He couldn't speak.

"You needn't hide it," Arthur went on lightly. "I can feel it, you know." He rubbed playfully at Alfred's elbow and nudged close, affectionate due to being full. "We have a special connection, you and I, after all."

—

"Is that good?" Arthur asked politely over his dainty teacup.

His mouth full, Alfred simply nodded; he lowered his fork and chewed more urgently in an effort to quicker swallow and affirm verbally. Arthur saw him doing it and gave a dismissive wave of his hand.

"Ah, do not hurry yourself on my account," he said pleasantly. "Savour it. Enjoy it. It is your breakfast, after all."

And a strange breakfast it was – though typical of their reversed lifestyle. To most, this was a hearty evening meal – lamb (he was fairly sure it was lamb, anyway, judging by the taste; Arthur had ordered for him), selection of vegetables, fresh rustic bread on the side – but Alfred most often started the "day" like this. This was the kind of food restaurants and clubs were serving at this time of the evening, after all.

It was always the best money could buy, too. Arthur was given an allowance by the Empire to take care of both of their needs, _more_ than enough, and so price was no object. They always dined in the finest establishments, surrounded by delicate crystal and social butterflies. Well, _Alfred_ dined. Arthur rarely ate anything like this, perhaps picking absently at some bread now and then or, on a mad whim, ordering a prawn cocktail or the like to nibble uninterestedly at. Mostly (like tonight) he simply asked for a pot of tea and sat opposite Alfred, watching him eat with utmost interest; and sometimes (like tonight) he liked to order for him, carefully scouring the menu and choosing what he thought best for his precious charge.

Alfred had to admit, he had never made a bad decision.

But he knew why Arthur found him so interesting to watch. It was because his taste, his appetite, was changing. Once he had honestly liked everything equally; now he found that he really preferred meat and, whilst he still ate the vegetables and enjoyed them well enough, he often couldn't help but feel that he could eat a whole platter of cooked meats, all kinds, just as easily. _More_ easily. That, and the fact that his preference for the way his meat _was_ cooked had altered too were the source of Arthur's smug curiosity; he had once liked his meat very well done but had gradually begun to ease it downwards, finding that he liked it better a little pinker, a littler rawer, a little... bloodier.

Arthur sat and smiled knowingly at him across the table. He was in a very good mood. Well, perhaps it was to be expected from a creature whose disposition relied solely on how full his belly was. Arthur was rather more than a little grouchy when he was hungry. Sharp-tongued. Nasty. Dangerous, even.

"I am very glad that you like my choice," he went on smoothly. "I thought that you would."

Alfred finally swallowed, nodding all the while.

"It is excellent," he agreed.

Arthur stirred absently at his tea, shooting Alfred a strange, sultry look.

"Tell me about it," he said.

Alfred faltered.

"W-well, it's... it's, ah..." He frowned and speared another mouthful with his fork, chewing more carefully this time to properly assess the flavour as best he could.

Arthur, meanwhile, became impatient.

"Come now, it is a simple enough question," he said. "And leave out the vegetables, I care little for them. The meat, boy. Is it exactly as you like it?"

"It is perfect," Alfred replied a little bit desperately. "The sauce... I do not know, it is rather spicy? Somewhat sharp—"

"Something fermented, I expect. Spices and herbs, too. And red wine vinegar."

"Yes, something fermented, perhaps," Alfred agreed. "And the meat... Is it lamb?"

"It is. Matured shoulder cut. Slow-roasted with rosemary so that it falls off the bone at the merest touch of your fork – but not _too_ much, of course. You like it a bit pink nowadays, do you not?"

Alfred reddened as though he ought to be ashamed of it.

"It is a damn sight better than _your_ burnt offerings!" he said crossly. "I am rebelling against you!"

Arthur leaned back and laughed.

"Ah, and a fitting rebellion," he sighed agreeably. "As if I would know how to cook. I try now and then only because you have not yet developed a proper and decent appetite. With that said, that you are beginning to enjoy your meat so rare is promising." He leant forward again, resting his chin on his linked hands. "And _of_ the rare meat, rose-pink and cooked to utter perfection especially for you... Is it tender?"

"Ah, yes."

"Succulent?"

"...Yes, you might say that."

"Is it an utter delight to sink your teeth into? Do your tastebuds spark and sizzle at its flavour? Does it melt in—?"

"_Yes, damn it_!" Alfred hissed at him. "Stop acting as though you are seducing me with naughty words!"

Arthur arched an eyebrow.

"But is that not what I am doing?" he inquired innocently. He kicked playfully at Alfred's shins under the table. "Come, America, do indulge me."

"I am _eating_, if you don't mind."

"Oh, you have much to learn still!" Arthur huffed, going back to his tea. He stirred it thoughtfully for a moment and Alfred gratefully went back to his meal.

There was a moment of silence.

"Well," Arthur went on conversationally a moment later, "all this talk of food has rekindled _my_ appetite."

Alfred blinked at him.

"You ate barely an hour ago!" he said irritably.

But he wasn't surprised.

Arthur suddenly looked rather wistful, an odd, almost sad expression flickering briefly across his face.

"There must be a battle going on somewhere," he said blandly. "You know perfectly well how my appetite works. The more bloodshed, the hungrier I am. I can go for days without feeling even a twinge of hunger if the fronts all lie quiet."

This was true; and, in fact, when he had been younger and in Arthur's care in the years before the Turn-of-the-Century War began, Alfred had known Arthur to quite contentedly go for _months_ without eating—

But that wasn't the case now. Arthur had been hungrier and hungrier these past few weeks – an unmistakeable sign that the war was worsening and the dead were falling in droves.

"Do you want to go back out to the alleys?" Alfred asked resignedly. "Or...?"

Arthur smirked at him.

"Shall we go to the club?" he asked lightly. "I feel like dining rather more classily this time – you can put on that pretty smile of yours and lure me something nice."

* * *

"And what do you suppose is going on over there?" Francis asked in a low voice, pausing with a hand on one hip.

Matthew stopped at his side, following the direction of his gaze with caution. They were in the less-reputable part of town and oddities in both persons and behaviour were not uncommon around here (Francis' pistol was always in his pocket, loaded). He noticed, however, that Francis was nodding towards a small cluster of people gathered tightly at the opening to one of the many alleyways – several women in long, ragged, low-cut dresses (presumably prostitutes), a well-dressed man (likely a reporter) and a police officer in his blue and brass.

"Do you think there has been another of those murders?" Matthew asked quietly. "The Penny-Ripper ones?"

Francis shot him a bleak smile.

"Shall we go and find out?"

He was already striding away as he spoke, his long blue coat fluttering after him like a flag. Matthew followed hastily, pushing up his glasses and coming to Francis' side as the Frenchman addressed the distracted policeman.

"Bon soir." The French was a mere triviality, the final dregs of his conversation with Matthew, for Francis switched to English to further his inquiry. "What, pray tell, is the subject of this evening's... ah, entertainment?"

The policeman twitched his moustache and looked Francis up and down with dislike.

"That's police business," he said gruffly; and, glancing again at the gold buttons and elaborate flourishings of bright threads and jewels on Francis's clothing, added, "Are you Empire or Continent, sir?"

Francis, who got asked this a lot due to a flamboyant dress-sense more akin to that of the Empire Army's officers than that of the Continent's (something which, as before, had never escaped Matthew's notice), didn't seem too offended, reaching into his coat for his official crest.

"Continent, sir," he replied politely, "and here is my proof."

The crest – pure silver mounted on white leather – glinted in the gaslight as Francis held it up. In its presence, the policeman looked rather embarrassed.

"My apologies, sir," he said meekly, clearly knowing full well that only those in the employ of the Continent Army were in possession of the force's crest as a form of identification. "Can't be too careful, though."

"Clearly not," Francis replied pleasantly, pocketing his crest again. He nodded behind the policeman to the alleyway. "What have we here?"

The policeman's moustache gave another thoughtful twitch, though he had changed his tune since having the crest flashed at him.

"Prostitute killed," he said, shooting a sidelong glance at the reporter (who was sidling closer whilst trying to give the appearance of being more interested in the opposite wall). "Third one this month alone." He gave a sigh. "Not to mention the spate of foreign sailors disappearing... 'Course, we're not finding out about it until weeks later when their bodies turn up dumped in the river. Clever, see, this murderer. Picks the ones that won't be missed."

"Do you think they are linked?" the reporter suddenly piped up, elbowing Matthew out of the way to insert himself into the discussion. "The killing of prostitutes and sailors, I mean? Those are two very different groups of people."

"Aside from the fact that they _won't be missed_," the policeman reiterated irritably.

"Quite," the reporter said blandly, taking out a pocketbook.

"That," the policeman went on, folding his arms, "and the fact that all these bodies, prostitutes and sailors both, turn up with bits missing. Like they've been eaten, you know?" He scowled at the reporter, who was madly scribbling everything down. "You can have that for free, you vulture. Put it in the damned papers, see if it puts the fear of the chase into the Penny-Ripper."

"How very... _interesting_." Francis nodded again towards the alley. "Might I take a look?"

"Be my guest, sir." The policeman stepped aside to let him through but smugly barred the reporter. "Not you, sonny-jim."

"It is most gracious of you," Francis sang. "Matthew, please assist me."

Matthew pushed past the grumbling reporter and twittering, terrified prostitutes and followed Francis down the narrow alleyway. It was dark, barely illuminated by the dim light from the street, and smelt strongly of filth and rot. The girl was crumpled at the furthest end of it, her ragged red dress of a flare of colour on the dirty ground; she was twisted, face-down, her throat torn out and her hair matted with congealing blood. There was further damage to her breast and abdomen, evident by the plentiful blood and slimy spill of organs, but her position made it (thankfully) difficult to really assess the damage.

His heart pounding, Matthew glanced at Francis, who was deeply frowning.

"What does this look like to you, Mathieu?" he asked in low French.

Matthew swallowed. He knew. He just didn't want to say it.

"Well?" Francis prompted. "Your silence will not stay the truth."

Matthew shut his eyes.

"It looks... like she was eaten." He exhaled. "As though...she was attacked by something that killed her, partly ate her and then..."

"And then dumped her here for someone else to find," Francis sighed, running a hand through his hair. "And I think you and I both know who it was."

Matthew looked away.

"Do you really think... that he would be here?" he asked. "In the Continent's capital?"

"Hide in the enemy's heart – the last place they would think to look." Francis clenched his fists. "This changes much. He may be on an Empire assignment and who knows what that may be – perhaps an assassination order on Continent generals. This..." He gestured to the girl. "These murders, prostitutes and foreign sailors, are mere fuel for his appetite. I doubt he came here solely to "enjoy the cuisine", as it were."

"What about the killings in Morocco?" Matthew asked. "Feliciano and Ludwig—"

"A decoy, I expect," Francis said. "The Empire no doubt sent him over there to kill Continent soldiers and redirect the hunt for him while he came here to carry out his orders." He shook his head. "Nations are vile creatures but they are also weapons. Left to their own devices, they will merely satisfy their appetite; it is in the hands of a strategic enemy that they are at their most dangerous."

"Can..." Matthew hesitated. "Can we be sure that it is him?"

Francis nodded.

"Unless the Empire has another Nation that we are not aware of," he said gravely. "They only had two – England and Russia – and we captured Russia some years ago. Antonio says that he heard rumours that Russia was later sold to a Chinese businessman as a bodyguard but we have no proof of it."

"Might it _be_ Russia?"

Again, Francis shook his head.

"I doubt it. Despite the rumours, I expect that Russia is still under Continent Army lock-up. No, this reeks of Empire conspiracy and England is their greatest weapon. We can only pray that they do not have another."

"And what about what you said earlier?" Matthew asked. "About... about my brother? Do you _really_ think he is still with England, helping him with all these horrible murders? It seems so... _impossible_." He shook his head. "I mean, Alfred used to talk about being heroic and good and I just... I cannot..."

"I cannot be certain, of course," Francis said smoothly, turning to Matthew and touching his trembling cheek. "But shall we hunt the Nation down and find out?"

* * *

"What do you want?" Alfred asked. "Is there anything in particular that you have an appetite for?"

"Ah, yes," Arthur replied gently, taking off his gloves. "Since you asked... I should quite like a soldier." He gave Alfred a little pat on the backside. "Right then, I will secure us a private room and you can lure me some supper. Off you go."

Alfred sidled over to a nearby booth and sat down, taking off his cloak; he watched Arthur stride over to the bar and lean over it, speaking in low tones to a member of staff. At length a wedge of Empire-supplied Continent banknotes came out of his pocket and were exchanged for a key, which Arthur took in his hand and, with his prize firmly in his possession, leaned back away from the bar again. He searched briefly for Alfred, his eyes a luminous and jealous shade of green across the room; holding up three fingers to indicate the room number before he turned and was gone, melting into the crowd.

Alfred leaned back against the booth and sighed. Arthur was, in fact, much better at making his meal gravitate towards him than Alfred, possessing about him that same allure which he had cast over the prostitute earlier that evening; however, he often liked to make Alfred "earn his keep", so to speak, and employed him to give the appearance of being a prostitute himself to entice some poor fool or other into one of the back rooms where Arthur was waiting like a spider crouched in the corner of its web.

Still, it wasn't much of a chore, he had to admit. Burton's Gentleman's Club, part-alehouse and part-brothel, was Arthur's favourite hunting ground if he wanted something a little heartier; the place was always packed with on-leave Continent soldiers looking to relax with a few drinks and a girl – or a boy – on their lap. Again, the two of them tried not to make too much of a habit of it for unwant of rousing suspicion about themselves but for now the newspapers had picked up the string of brutal murders they had taken to calling the 'Penny-Ripper Case' with no suspects or leads to follow up on. Arthur was much too careful to leave a trail and, with the protection of the Empire Army, was good at making himself and Alfred disappear if need be. They were mere spectres in the night, existing outside of society with laws all their own.

So Alfred, sitting alone, waited. A few soldiers passed by him but didn't spare him a glance, distracted already by the girls in bright, low-cut dresses simpering on their arms. He frowned impatiently, hoping he wouldn't have to wait long for a taker. He wasn't bothered about looks, personal hygiene or how violent his prospective "customer" looked given that all he was going to do was falsely flirt with him a little bit before leading him to the slaughter. He straightened his cravat and brushed down his blue pinstriped waistcoat in an effort to neaten himself up and attract someone. Arthur was probably pacing the room with hunger and Alfred hated to keep him waiting when his appetite was like this.

And perhaps, once he had eaten, he would be satisfied enough to go the whole way with Alfred tonight. It had been weeks since they had last had sex properly, Arthur constantly complaining that he was too hungry to trust himself. Alfred grumbled but was grateful that Arthur cared enough for his wellbeing that he didn't want to risk sinking his teeth into him.

Still, it was frustrating.

A shadow came over him and Alfred glanced up. A high-ranking officer, his uniform sparkling with prestigious decorations, was at his table, giving him the once-over. He seemed to like what he saw.

Jackpot.

"Are you waiting for someone in particular?" the officer asked; he was broad, dark hair and moustache, with grey eyes and a pompous air about him.

Alfred shook his head, his own handsome smile spreading across his face.

"No, sir," he replied.

"Excellent," the officer said briskly. "You can come along with me and show me a good time – depending on your fee, that is. How much do you charge an army man?"

And now the reeling-in.

"Oh, no charge _at all_ for an army man," Alfred said sweetly, standing. "You all do such a _good job_ of protecting us that I could not _possibly_ bring myself to ask you for payment."

The officer puffed up impressively, seeming extremely pleased with his find.

"Very good, very good indeed," he brayed. "Lovely work ethic you have there. What, pray, is your name?"

"Alfred, sir."

"Very well, Alfred. You will understand that I do not like to disclose my own name. Nonetheless, I like you. If you service me well, I might keep you for the night."

"That is most kind of you, sir." Alfred gestured towards the back of the club's main parlour. "I have a private room reserved for use, if you would care to follow."

"Lead on."

Alfred took up his cloak over one arm and made his way across the parlour, the officer close at his elbow; the man smelt strongly of alcohol and some kind of cheap chemical aftershave and Alfred could only hope that Arthur wouldn't complain about how he tasted the way he had with the hapless Finn sailor last night. Of course, killing soldiers on leave was risky, far riskier than said hapless Finn sailors and prostitutes on the street, but one of the reasons Arthur favoured this establishment was that it was illegal. Well, the brothel-element of it was – and so visitors did not sign in and out when they came here. There was no record whatsoever of who had been to the club and who hadn't. There was no evidence that Arthur had ever been here and the same went for his victims.

Stepping out into the back corridor, Alfred checked that his catch was still behind him before turning back to the row of doors. Behind each was a cramped, dirty little room with a bed in it. He found number three, the painted digit peeling off, and took the officer by the wrist to lead him to it; he smiled winningly at him, trying to look eager, to look sincere, as he knocked at the door.

"Knocking?" the officer asked, frowning. "Have you a colleague with you?"

"Something like that." Alfred clung onto him, for fear that he might change his mind and back away in light of the unexpected company, as the door opened a crack and Arthur's green eyes gleamed out at him.

Alfred gestured subtly, watching for approval.

The door opened wider, Arthur fixing his own most charming smile upon the officer.

"Good boy, Alfred," he said warmly. "You have done very well. Please, do come in."

Alfred pulled the officer – who, looking over Arthur with interest, didn't put up much of a fight – into the room and Arthur closed the door behind them.

"Well," the officer said briskly, drawing himself up, "I must say this is an impeccable service that I have yet to experience at this club! Alfred, you should not have been so shy as to neglect to mention that you had a lovely little friend with you." Again he looked from Alfred to Arthur (the latter of whom was dressed particularly finely tonight, his red velvet waistcoat delicately embroidered with gold so that it flashed and glittered whenever he moved), his eyes roving over the pair of them greedily. "Do I truly get to play with you both?"

"In time, in time." Arthur, the apparent "lovely little friend", was looking at the officer just as ravenously, something which Alfred felt the man was tragically misreading as lust; his eyes were not quite as bright as they had been at dinner, losing their spark the hungrier he became. "First you will satisfy me." He glanced at Alfred, playing it up. "If I can persuade dearest _Alfred_ to wait his turn, that is."

Alfred gave a gracious smile.

"He is all yours, Arthur," he replied.

"How generous of you, love," Arthur sighed. "I will see to it that you are rewarded for your patience."

He went to the door and locked it, checking it before turning back to his tiny audience; he unpinned the glimmering circle of jewels from his cravat and pocketed it, beginning to untie the silk to pull it loose from his collar.

"Now then," he went on lightly, "patience itself is the key here. There will be turns taken. I am in no mood for a mad rush – a free-for-all, if you will. Is that agreeable, gentlemen?"

Alfred frowned at the cravat in Arthur's hands but nodded; the officer, who was used to giving orders but not taking them, seemed a little more disgruntled.

"Is there need for such rigidity in our conduct?" he griped. "I come here to get away from all that."

"I prefer not to have limbs flying about the place, if it is all the same to you. It makes life difficult for me." Arthur didn't look at the officer, tugging at Alfred and drawing him towards the bed. "Now, Alfred, lie down. I am going to restrain you."

This was new. This was very new and startling. Alfred narrowed his eyes.

"Why?" he asked. "What do you intend to do to me?"

"Nothing whatsoever," Arthur replied. "That is entirely the point. You will be restrained until your turn comes. I am curious about something."

"Is this necessary?" the officer interjected. "Let the boy join us—"

"No." Arthur's absinthe eyes – dull, misty, starving – didn't leave Alfred's. "He will do as he is told."

Alfred lay down on the bed, though he did it sulkily, looking away at the wall. Arthur leant over him and lashed his wrists overhead to the shaky metal headboard with the cravat, giving it a few tugs to ensure that it was secure. Alfred debated complaining that it was too tight to be annoying but he could see how hungry Arthur was and decided not to push him, instead only nodding mutely when Arthur curtly asked if he was comfortable.

The officer, he noticed, didn't seem very interested in him anymore; he was far more interested in Arthur, watching his every move admiringly, longingly, his fingers twitching at his sides as though he ached to put them about the delicate monster before him and draw him close. Such was the behaviour of Arthur's victims – drawn sickeningly and inexplicably by _something_ about him that Alfred had never quite been able to put his finger on but was charmed by himself. It was unnatural but there really _was_ just something about him, whether it was his eyes or his manner or his angelic smile, that made you not mind terribly that he didn't want anything from you other than to eat you.

Arthur leant down again and lifted Alfred's glasses off his face, carefully folding them and putting them on the windowsill. He pulled the pin from Alfred's cravat and began to unknot it. Alfred twisted irritably, pulling at the restraint of the first necktie. It held fast, his struggles only making the bed-frame rattle scandalously.

"This really is not necessary, Arthur," he groused.

"Oh, but I rather think that it is," Arthur replied lightly, tugging the cravat loose. He brought it up to Alfred's face and carefully tied it over his eyes, blindfolding him. "I do not want you to see with your eyes a sight that is so commonplace to you by now. Something has begun to stir in you but it is not triggered by sight, by any sense whatsoever – but rather flickers in your blood at my insistence and at my pleasure. Your system is beginning to activate and you do not _need_ your eyes in order to encourage it."

Alfred could see nothing now. He exhaled and gave a brief, discomfited nod – but could not see if Arthur returned or even acknowledged it. It was a claustrophobic feeling, his eyelashes brushing frantically against the silk as he blinked behind it; he wasn't afraid, exactly, but it did leave him feeling a bit helpless, much more so than being restrained. The world had been reduced completely to the tight weave of his own navy-blue cravat.

He felt the mattress shift as Arthur moved away; silence, a pause, and then he felt him leaning over him, fingertips brushing his forehead.

"Are you quite alright?" Arthur asked in a low voice. "You are comfortable?"

Alfred swallowed, his throat suddenly terribly dry, and gave a nod. Arthur inclined closer still and, a moment later, Alfred felt the dry, warm press of his lips against his brow.

"Well then, I shan't be long," Arthur promised. "Do enjoy yourself."

He was gone, Alfred hearing the crease and crinkle of his crisp shirt as he walked away, the gentle, confident tap of his feet on the rough wooden floor. Frowning, Alfred wriggled on the lumpy mattress to get a little more comfortable, listening instead of watching; he heard Arthur speaking in low and sultry tones to the officer, apologising for the wait, asking if he didn't think that Alfred looked quite delectable all tied up like that. He was leading him away from the bed; Alfred could hear the gentle tick-tock stride across the floor as they retreated to the other side of the tiny room. He could barely pick out what they were saying anymore, so low were their voices, so transparent were Arthur's rehearsed lines; and over them like an opaque film was the rustle of clothing, the click and clatter of buckles, the peeling back of layer after layer so that Arthur could set in for the kill with ease.

Alfred felt the heat begin to simmer in his belly already, embroidered deep at the base of it; his heart, too, began to quicken and pound. He lay still and blinked against the blindfold, focusing on Arthur and the officer, on what he could hear, what he could feel. The footsteps stopped and he supposed that Arthur had backed the officer against the far wall, probably purring against him, nuzzling, nudging, pawing so affectionately that the officer couldn't believe his luck, probably with his hands in Arthur's gold hair or arms around his back, holding him tight and close, no longer concerned with Alfred now that he had this creature in his grasp—

A _thud_. The belt hitting the floor. The buttons were now all that stood between Arthur and the torso of his victim. Alfred could feel Arthur's excitement mounting, twisting a little himself. One knee jerked up almost reflexively and he made a conscious effort to flatten it out again.

"Arthur," he bleated forlornly, beginning to feel quite sorry for himself.

"It'll be your turn in a minute, love, I promise," Arthur replied gently. "Relax."

"I think he needs better discipline," the officer put in reprovingly.

"Mm." Arthur was no longer interested in making small-talk with the man; there was another lull, that crucial moment during which Arthur, smiling sweetly all the while, analysed his victim, considered where best to attack and how.

And then he struck.

It was quick. Alfred trembled as Arthur's teeth went in, probably to the neck, and, at the blood bursting forth, a narrow and intense spike of pleasure came cleaving through him; his legs parted and his back arched, all of him feeling open, spread apart as though dissected, every nerve ending of every organ alive and quivering as he gasped for breath. The edges of his jaw ached and saliva welled. There was a muffled yell and a bit of a struggle, brief and weak, and Arthur pulled and snapped and won. The corpse fell and Alfred saw the blood blistering behind his eyelids, his sudden aching want painting the pictures into his mind's eye with a vivid precision; he imagined how it would spread on the floorboards, how it would collect in the splinters, soak into the grains, drip into the gaps between the crooked boards, how it would congeal and putrefy as it moulded itself there, long forgotten after they had left. He twisted and exhaled, half-groaning, and listened to Arthur compose himself for a moment.

"Arthur," he whined again. "England..."

"Let me eat," Arthur replied shortly. Alfred heard more rustling and didn't know whether it was the officer's clothing or Arthur's own; he listened intently and caught the sound of Arthur gently going onto his knees, leaning over his prey.

Alfred held his breath.

Arthur began eating, sinking his teeth into warm flesh again deeply and powerfully, tearing at his meal like an animal; he was always like this when he was ravenous, tearing to tatters his kill as though he was some kind of wild cat with only his teeth and his nails. The flesh ripped with a sound like wet paper, veins and sinew pulled and snapped like elastic and bone tinkled and crunched – Arthur had a very strong jaw and an even stronger stomach. He could eat anything at all, Alfred having seen him devour soldiers riddled with bullets and shrapnel without first separating the debris from his meal; here, Alfred heard his teeth scrape on a stray medal from the officer's bloodied jacket and could only presume that Arthur had simply swallowed that up as well. It all tasted the same to him, bullets and their singed wounds, these nods to bravery and service coupled with the corpses of their wearers. It all tasted like war.

Alfred pulled at the cravat binding his hands, wanting desperately to twist, to turn over onto his stomach and squirm and grind against the mattress; he couldn't and the frame rattled again as he struggled. His pulse beat frantically in his neck and at his wrists like a bird and he arched his back again and writhed. Both knees came up, his feet flat against the mattress, his legs parting as wide as he could spread them. It was more intense than ever because he had no outlet, couldn't see, couldn't touch, could only imagine. He was hardening now, his velvet breeches tightening over his crotch, every bite Arthur took, every swallow of bloodied gore, they all echoed in Alfred's body as faithfully as the ticking of a clock, flowering in his libido until he was on the very verge of thrashing and cursing. He turned his head aside and forced himself to breathe calmly, inhaling the musty scent of the old pillow, and his trembling hips lifted briefly before he was able to anchor them to the sheets again. He felt rather like a cork on the verge of popping out of a champagne bottle, tightly-wedged but not for much longer, the aphrodisiac of Arthur's appetite fizzing and frothing in every square inch of him until even his skin, hot and tight, felt too small to possibly confine him. Imagining that he might burst suddenly at any moment, leaving behind only another red smear for Arthur to lick up and complain about how dirty and chemical he tasted, he bit at his bottom lip to hold in a shriek of frustration and of want. It was all he could do.

(And there was something moving in him, beginning to shift, to stir; inching and spreading up his spinal cord, touching oh-so-gently to nerve-endings to make them spark, the tiny jolts surging and bouncing throughout his body. He could feel it but it was barely physical, more a strange and innate knowledge that it was happening, a pushing and prickling like an itch—)

And then it all stopped. Alfred collapsed onto the bed with a choked gasp, panting for breath. All that remained was the tight swell between his legs – everything else had fallen completely still and silent.

"England?" he asked shakily, almost breathless.

"I'm here, poppet." There was pressure on the mattress and Alfred suddenly felt Arthur's presence next to him, leaning over to free his wrists. "Did you enjoy that?"

"No," Alfred grumbled.

Arthur laughed.

"Are you quite sure about that?" He pulled the cravat loose and nudged his knee against Alfred's crotch, making him hiss. "It looks to me that it was hardly a wasted venture."

"What on earth is happening to my body?" Alfred scowled behind the cravat as he rubbed at his sore wrists. "And do not lie. I _know_ that you know."

Arthur gave another pleasant little laugh. His mood was much better now; Alfred could tell just by listening to him.

"As before, the Nation in you is awakening, that is all," he said, reaching behind Alfred's head to untie the blindfold. "America, that is. It is perfectly understandable. The fighting is worsening with each passing day and I grow hungry on behalf of all of the Empire's armies, not merely Britain's. An echo as intense as that which you just felt from my feeding was no doubt due to the North American Army becoming embroiled in battle."

The cravat came away and Alfred blinked open his eyes, looking up at Arthur. The Nation was far messier this time, blood smeared about his mouth and staining his crescent-moon smile, with further splatters on his shirt and darker blotches on his crimson waistcoat; his hair was rather wild and his eyes were very green, bright and electric, almost glowing.

Alfred leant up towards him, pressing his lips to the corner of Arthur's mouth; there was a sharp bite of iron and Alfred opened his mouth as Arthur lazily turned into the kiss, tasted the blood on his tongue and between his teeth. Usually it made him pull away in disgust but tonight he wanted it, gripping tightly at Arthur's shirt collar and hanging onto him.

"My, you're eager," Arthur sighed amusedly, pulling away.

"You know why." Alfred nuzzled at him insistently, pressing open-mouthed kisses on his neck to lap at the splashes of blood. "England, _England_—"

"Yes, you are turned on." Arthur patted at Alfred's back. "In so many ways, one might say."

Alfred pulled back and looked at Arthur very intently.

"Are you full?"

"As a bleeding tick."

Alfred pawed at him.

"I want—"

"Yes, I know what you want." Arthur took Alfred's hand and kissed it. "I am the Penny-Ripper, dear boy. I haven't much of a reputation for anything other than ripping—"

"I have been patient!" Alfred scraped at Arthur's velvet waistcoat. "You said that I would have my turn, that I would be rewarded! You _promised_!""

"America, when do I ever break my promises to you?" Arthur lay back on the bed, getting comfortable; his belt was already undone, probably to have given himself more room to utterly gorge himself on gore. "Just give me a moment more. I need to digest if I am to get my strength back. All that bloody fighting makes me feel like I've been through the wars myself."

Alfred sighed and lay down with him, sprawling between his legs with his head on Arthur's stomach. He could feel it moving beneath his cheek, pulsing, grinding, crushing with a faint whirr like machinery. It was familiar, an exhaustive process that Arthur's body went through every time he ate excessively to quell his erratic and violent appetite, siphoning its strength from the bloody debris he had taken into his system, and Alfred suddenly felt rather guilty for being so demanding. He could wait ten more minutes.

Arthur closed his eyes with a tired sigh and put his hand in Alfred's hair, rubbing at his scalp.

"Is it painful, England?" Alfred asked quietly, settling more comfortably.

"Stirring" though he might have been, he was glad that he was not yet entirely like Arthur; he knew enough of Arthur's behaviour to think that Arthur himself often wished that he was not as he was, either. Though he delighted in the hunt and revelled in the kill, living this way was not as easy as he made it look.

"A little bit, at times," Arthur replied, his eyes opening again the slightest bit; the green of his eyes blazed on his white cheeks as he looked down at Alfred. "But this is war and such is the price of victory."

* * *

Sexytiems next time but you have to want it~! XD

**Arthur's tabloid title of "the Penny-Ripper":** This is a portmanteau, of sorts, of 'Penny Dreadful' and 'Jack the Ripper', the latter being the popular title for the Victorian era murderer who killed five women (but perhaps more) in the Whitechapel area of London. All were prostitutes – not that that makes it okay at all – but he had a definite MO. Penny Dreadfuls (sometimes called Penny Bloods) were trashy pulp horror papers printed cheaply in this period, full of ridiculous and outlandishly gruesome stories often in a vein similar to the Jack the Ripper case. Notably, an incarnation of the _Sweeney Todd_ story (which itself has roots in earlier literature/urban legend) appeared in a Penny Dreadful under the ongoing title of _The String of Pearls_. In the story (and the Sondheim musical/Burton adaptation of it), Todd and Lovett are careful to kill customers who won't be missed, usually foreign sailors. D:

Speaking of Tim Burton (sort of!), **Burton's Gentleman's Club** is named partly for him (given his love of the macabre) and partly for one of the magazines which Edgar Allan Poe used to edit, _Burton's Gentleman's Magazine_ (...given his love of the macabre). Tee hee.

Soooooo, everyone, I wonder if I can now ask for a favour. I am running a bit of an experiment with the posting of this chapter, hoping to confirm as to whether or not there is something wrong with FFNet's alert system. I might be wrong but I think a lot of people aren't being sent author/story update alerts by the site, not just for my fics, obviously, but for the entire site. SO, you don't have to "review", per se, and I really hate to ask and beg for comments because I don't like to pressure people to review, but if you had this on Story Alert, could I please ask you to leave a message confirming it? :3

Here, I even made you a ready-to-go copy-and-paste template: **I got an alert. I'm on to you, you review whore. **That's all – you don't have to add anything to it. Just that is fine. It would be very helpful to me!

Again, I'm REALLY sorry to ask for "reviews" but I don't know how else to confirm whether or not the alerts are down/sporadic/are completely fine and it's just that no-one likes me anymore. XD

(Of course, if you want to leave an _actual_ comment, you can, haha.)

Laaaaastly, I meant to mention last time, with regards to my overuse of 'absinthe' to describe Arthur's eyes, absinthe itself is often nicknamed 'the Green Fairy'. He wears green. He sees fairies. Is there a better nickname for him to go by? No. No, there is not. Please feel free to make other kinds of fairy jokes at your leisure. XD

Thank you for the wait and thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it! Hopefully the wait for the next chapter won't be as long!

RR

xXx


	3. The Bell Invites Me

Though _Something Wicked_ is my constant melancholy victim, forever shunned to the back of my writing queue, with a week to go until Halloween (and, incidentally, _Something Wicked_'s first "birthday", lololol), I decided to put in the effort and write a new chapter to celebrate the (upcoming) holiday in a spooky and special manner! I have something planned for Halloween itself, of course, so let's call this Part One of my Fearsome Fiction Feast (I was up all night with that one, you may be sure!).

This fic is surprisingly popular and I would just like to thank everyone who has said such kind things about it! I am so happy that everyone seems to like it so far and I hope that this chapter will not disappoint! I really do like this story and hope that you all will too (when I finally finish it...).

I'd like to do my individual thank yous but I can't get my reviews page to load. :C

Today's chapter title makes for a Macbeth Double (which sounds like a McDonald's meal deal, lawl): "The bell invites me" is spoken by Macbeth in a soliloquy as he contemplates on the decision to murder King Duncan.

Something Wicked This Way Comes

The Bell Invites Me

Alfred was pushed off Arthur's hips, dazed and half-naked and straight out of a kiss; he tumbled from the squeaking bed and landed in a heap on the floorboards, scowling up at Arthur.

"What the hell?" he demanded. "You said you were ready!"

"I am." Arthur turned on to his side, meeting Alfred's gaze lazily. His eyes were bright and mesmerizing. "We need lubricant."

Alfred frowned.

"Haven't you any?" he asked, kneeling up. "You usually carry... _oils_ and the like—"

"Not tonight." Arthur yawned, his sharp white teeth flashing, and then he pointed lazily at the corpse of the Continent Army officer lying long-dead in the corner (or what was _left_ of it, anyway). "Fetch some blood."

Alfred wrinkled his nose in disgust; Arthur caught him doing it and shot him an icy look before turning over.

"Fine," he sighed. "Go without. I am much too full to care."

"Why have you nothing on you?" Alfred whined. "It isn't like you, England! Are you sure you are not lying?"

Arthur gave a little laugh.

"Even if I _am_ lying," he conceded, "I shall stick to the lie – and so desperate times may indeed call for desperate measures, hmm?"

"You _are_ lying!" Alfred shook him. "You _know_ I have been wanting this for weeks! You would not have neglected to be prepared!"

"If you are so desperate, the mechanics will not bother you. It is the blood of my meal or nothing at all – and by nothing I mean no intercourse whatsoever. It is an ultimatum and you must choose."

"It is disgusting," Alfred said crossly.

Arthur was silent for a moment.

"Do you really think that," he asked at length, his voice very quiet, curious, "or did you simply _once_ think that, America?"

He still didn't turn over, the powerful muscles in his slender back standing out against the dirty white of his shirt. Alfred watched him, not daring to think too hard about the question, terrified that he would find unfurling within himself something that had changed, something that he was much happier not knowing.

"It _is_ disgusting," he said again, rather forlornly. "You did this on purpose."

"Perhaps," Arthur agreed lightly, getting comfortable. "America, here is the question: Do you want me to fuck you or not?"

"Yes," Alfred said adamantly, "but—"

"Then get the blood. Otherwise..." Arthur sat up suddenly, his hair sticking up all over the place; he smoothed it down a little, grooming rather like a cat as he paused again. "Otherwise let us depart and hence home. My poor bones ache for my coffin."

"You promised!" Alfred burst out; and aware though he was that he was behaving akin to a spoilt child (...which he sort of _was_, honestly), he seized Arthur's arm regardless. "England, you _promised_!"

"America, the decision is entirely up to you," Arthur replied, plucking his wrist loose. "You have your options before you – but I will not make you do anything you are not ready for. However, I should make you aware that this _will_ be the new procedure between you and I. It is blood or nothing at all. If the thought disgusts you, you must do your best to make peace with it or acquaint yourself with being celibate." He smirked. "I shouldn't think that either will last long. You are a hair's width away from awakening properly, I wouldn't wager."

"And then I too shall hunger for the flesh of prostitutes and the innards of soldiers," Alfred said flatly. "What joyous tidings."

"You offend me grievously," Arthur replied smugly, patting Alfred's cheek. "Now get the blood like a good lad. Chop chop."

Alfred pulled away from him irritably and rose, pulling his open shirt back around himself as he padded across the room towards the dead officer. He hadn't paid much heed to the body before, more interested in Arthur – but now, with only the corpse for company in the corner, he found himself assessing the horrendous damage done by the deadly little killing machine preening himself on the bed. Arthur had quite literally torn this man apart, one of his arms and his head practically severed, his chest and stomach ripped open with no semblance of neatness and the gleaming slimy spill of organs rearranged, tossed back after being half-eaten. The heart was missing completely, as were the lungs – Arthur never failed to eat those organs – and there was blood absolutely _everywhere_.

Alfred sank to his knees next to the carcass, not quite sure what to do next. His whole body was quivering. The smell of blood and butchery was overpowering, fragrant in the worst way – like decaying roses and burning copper and filthy side-streets with a lacing of chemicals thrown in and shaken well. He felt his stomach heave and took a deep breath to calm himself, closing his eyes for a moment.

"What shall I do?" he asked. "Just put the blood... on my hands...?"

"Yes, I think that would be best." Arthur sounded marginally more interested now – and Alfred heard him shifting on the bed again, perhaps leaning forward.

Still with his eyes clamped shut, Alfred reached out a shaking hand and blindly felt for the body, repressing a shudder at the warm, spongy feeling of congealing flesh. His fingers crawled sightlessly until they slipped into the crevices of wounds and then, as they grew suddenly slick with blood, red flowered behind his eyelids, bright and demanding and lush. He snatched his hand back with a gasp and held it out before himself, shaking all over – and could feel it tingling on the tips of his fingers, warm, sticky—

He didn't know why he did it but he suddenly thrust his fingers into his mouth, biting down hard on them as the bitter tang of old salt spritzed across his tongue. He gave a grunt around them, half-disgusted with himself, half merely in pain with his teeth still sunk into his own skin, and flashed his tongue against them, between them, licking them clean with an unbidden urgency. His heart-rate quickened at the taste of it – and though it wasn't entirely pleasant, it was... _desirable_.

He didn't hear Arthur approach him from behind but he felt his breath on the back of his neck. His eyes were still closed, his mouth still covetously wrapped around his own fingers, and he gave a shaky exhale at the realisation of Arthur's sudden and silent presence.

"Now _this_ is interesting," Arthur sighed, wrapping his arms around Alfred's waist from behind. "I do not recall telling you to do anything of _this_ nature, my love."

He kissed Alfred's neck once, twice, his teeth grazing on the third; and Alfred came completely back to his senses and pulled his dripping fingers out of his mouth, wiping them on his shirt.

"I... I was..." He cleared his throat, trembling in Arthur's grasp. "I didn't... I-I mean, I was—"

"Hush." Arthur smiled against his neck. "All is well."

"All is _not_ well!" Alfred retorted shakily, squeezing his eyes tighter yet. "I just—I do not know why I—"

"America," Arthur sighed in his ear, "all is well. Do trust me." He unwound himself from Alfred's person and gave him a nudge. "Go back to the bed. I shall deal with this."

Alfred opened his eyes at long last, daring to look at Arthur (who, kneeling before the corpse, looked incredibly white and electric and pleased). Afraid of his smile, Alfred simply nodded and scrambled away, half-crawling to the bed before managing to lift himself to his feet and topple on. He lay back, his pounding head grateful for the lumpy, filthy pillow, and waited once again.

Arthur did not busy himself at the body long, scampering back over to Alfred with both hands dressed in gloves of gore and settling on the bed between his charge's long, naked legs. His mood seemed greatly improved for having witnessed Alfred's ghastly indulgence, his smile stretched widely across his pallid face, at long last truly interested in his promise.

"My hands are bloody," he said sweetly, holding them out, "so you'll have to do the undressing. Take down your underwear first – I can prepare you whilst you unclothe me as best you can."

Alfred sat up and took hold of his waistband, untying the cord to slip out of his white undershorts. He was already mostly undressed, the rest of his clothing tossed over the side of the bed and his glasses on the bedside, and the discarding of his undergarments left him in only his unbuttoned shirt, which he was quick to shrug off in succession. Arthur liked him to be naked – he liked to look at those thirteen precious roses etched onto his skin.

Arthur himself, conversely, often stayed in a reasonable state of dress, perhaps because he did not like Alfred to see the wounds all over his own body (and or perhaps because he did not like to look at them himself). With this in mind, Alfred wondered how far Arthur would actually let him undress him tonight.

"Up on your knees," Arthur commanded, flexing his grisly-garish fingers. "Come now, hurry along or the blood will congeal."

Alfred obeyed, kneeling up just enough that Arthur could slip his hand between his legs and beneath him; he reached for Arthur's belt and began to unbuckle it as the first of those scarlet-slicked fingers circled his entrance and then slid inside him with practice (at which he gave a little hiss and buckled forward against Arthur).

"Do not fight it," Arthur said soothingly. "Attend yourself to your task."

Alfred gave a nod and focused himself on getting Arthur's belt and trousers undone, doing his best to ignore the burn of the stretch; after all, it had been weeks since Arthur had last been within him and even two fingers was proving to be uncomfortable. He rested his chin on Arthur's shoulder, breathing as evenly as he could between sharp little hitches, his body bearing down hard upon Arthur's fingers as he was pulled open.

"Does it hurt?" Arthur's voice was gentle, concerned, as he nuzzled at Alfred's neck; and the kindness in him was so strange when his fingers were lubricated only by the spilled blood of one of his countless mortalities. He murdered with no mercy whatsoever, enjoying every edge of the deed, and yet seemed utterly incapable of bearing any real cruelty towards Alfred.

"Y-yes," Alfred breathed, spreading his knees a little more on the mattress, "but you must... pursue it. I will endure."

"Good lad." Arthur gave a sigh as Alfred fumbled with his underwear, loosening and pushing until his cock was free of it. "It is my fault, of course – you have not been taken care of in this manner for so long. You must forgive me. I have simply not been up to it, for at times my body aches so much with the hunger of war that I feel that I must not risk your safety, lest my appetite make a meal of you – and, at other times, my body has simply ached with pure exhaustion." He gave Alfred a weak, strangely vulnerable little smile. "I have neglected the soil of my grave for a bed with you. Ultimately it is not good for my person – I am weaker now than I ought to be, having fed."

"Would you prefer... for me to ride?" Alfred breathed.

"Mmm, I believe that would be for the best." Arthur was lazily slicking himself with his other hand, moving both up and down, up and down in the same rhythm, preparing both of their bodies for the deed. "My appetite is sated but my body is still siphoning from my meal..." He shook his head a little bit. "I apologise, America. I know it frustrates you but this war takes its toll on me so."

"I know." Alfred sighed it, leaving off slipping the gold buttons of Arthur's scarlet waistcoat undone to put his hands to the older man's white face instead. His mouth was still stained from his meal. "You have been too fond of me, I think, to have ignored your body's cries in favour of sharing a bed with me instead."

"I will make amends when we return home," Arthur replied; and, satisfied, he slipped his fingers out of Alfred's long, quivering body. "But for now, allow me to fulfil my promise as best I can."

He sank to the bed on his back, pushing down his lower garments a little more; and then took Alfred's hands and steadied him as he straddled and positioned himself. Alfred was shaking, nakedly cold in the draughty old room and oddly half-terrified, and clung to Arthur's sticky hands as he felt him nudge against his gory entrance. His eyes were squeezed shut and he took a deep breath as he felt Arthur pull his hands free to put them on his hips instead; and pressed his own palms flat against Arthur's ribcage to hold his balance.

"Are you ready?" Arthur asked lullingly, his voice eerily calm; his pulse thrummed against Alfred's hipbones.

"Yes," Alfred gasped out. "Yes, just... just—"

Arthur rolled his own hips upwards and Alfred rocked with him, not resisting gravity but instead settling on the drag of it, allowing Arthur to push inside him wholly with little resistance. His body clamped and shuddered around the invasion and his stomach bubbled and bounced at the sensation, his knees pressed tightly to the sides of Arthur's ribcage as he gasped shallowly around the cry caught in his throat. His fingers clenched into Arthur's shirt and they both fell still again.

"Too much?" Arthur asked. "I understand that it has been a while."

"Not... not too much," Alfred insisted breathlessly. "It... it is just that..."

He trailed off and exhaled, finally opening his eyes to look down at Arthur. The beast lay beneath him with his bloody hands still on Alfred's hips, looking up at him, his green eyes bright with detached interest and the halo of his hair wild on the dirty clubhouse pillow. Alfred was utterly full of him, feeling that he must be terribly tight around Arthur's cock – but that was barely the beginning of the sensation. The blood inside him, the thin liquid seal which completed their union like a wax stamp, fizzed and frothed, his body echoing with its war cry. He could feel it within him, seeping and spreading, caressing each of his nerve endings with a sick and silken touch, and when he closed his eyes he saw the delicious rush of red. It bayed in the cores of his bones and Arthur smiled, taking his hands once more.

"All is well," he promised again. "Come now – move."

Alfred gave a little whine but obeyed, clutching tightly at Arthur's grimy palms and trusting him to hold him steady as he began to move, lifting himself. The blood rusted and it hurt but Arthur moved with him, easing the burn; and, at length, the burn itself became buried beneath that sizzling sensation deep inside him, at the spilt blood of the man he had gleefully led to the slaughter to satisfy Arthur's dreadful hunger – as though it belonged there, rushing within the narrow canals of his being to aid the pleasure he felt from being fucked by this same monstrous creature.

Taking his hands from Arthur's, growing comfortable with the rhythm, Alfred reached again for Arthur's chest to finish unbuttoning his clothing; he watched his white face for the familiar flinch but Arthur's expression remained unchanged, his brow a little furrowed with concentration. A few spikes of his golden hair had fallen into his eyes and Alfred reached, briefly, to brush them aside, his fingers lingering then on Arthur's face, touching fondly at his cheek—

Arthur snapped at his fingers, the red stains at the corners of his teeth visible as he missed only by Alfred snatching his hand back. He gave a frustrated inhale and closed his eyes briefly, running his tongue over his bottom lip and then biting down on it.

"My apologies," he said, a little short of breath. "I am full to bursting and still not satisfied. I would advise you not to touch my face. I do not wish to be responsible for ripping one of your fingers off."

"Right," Alfred said faintly. He busied his hands back at Arthur's chest, fumbling with his buttons.

"I am sorry," Arthur said again. "Perhaps we should cease. I do not... desire to hurt you, America—"

"No." Their pace quickening, his body tightly corkscrewing around Arthur and clutching covetously at his cock, Alfred shook his head firmly. "All is well. I know that... this is not your fault, Arthur."

He slipped the last pearl button through its slot and parted Arthur's shirt, looking down at his pale chest. His wounds were still there, unhealed as always. They no longer bled – and had not done so for almost three hundred years – but lacked also the ability to mend, remaining open gashes in Arthur's slender torso. There were four, the marks of the sword that had killed him, and were held together by gold thread (which gleamed now under the narrow light with the swollen promise of great riches). One lay on his belly, just below his navel, another higher up beneath the archway of his ribcage, and the final two were punctures at the left side of his chest. Neither had hit his heart but it hadn't mattered – all four had gone straight through his body, the tears in his back stitched up in a samely manner. There was another gash, this one methodical and medical, along the length of his spine, also, but this had little to do with his murder and far more instead to do with the manner in which he now lived.

"It is not your fault," Alfred insisted again, looking at him.

Arthur had two bullet wounds from long after his death, one at his right shoulder and another just under his collarbone; these, too, would never heal and gaped narrowly, little passages into his stagnant skin. There were a few other nicks and cuts also, minor complaints which would have vanished without a trace if not upon _him_.

Ruthless and confident whilst clothed, reminded of what he was only by his appetite, Arthur would lower his eyes for no man and no thing; but now, laid bare, he could no longer hold Alfred's feverish gaze, closing his jade eyes so that his eyelashes twitched like nervous stage curtains against his fair cheeks.

It was not his mangled appearance which shamed him, Alfred knew; it was the fact that he had been killed at all.

Alfred reached down and took hold of Arthur underneath his armpits, lifting him upright into a sitting position; their angle shifted and Alfred's weight pushed harder and deeper into Arthur's lap, at which Arthur gave a little wheeze and opened his eyes again.

"Goodness, you're getting to be... rather a big lad, aren't you," he muttered breathlessly, wrapping his arms around Alfred's broad back, settling in the small of it. "This is of benefit?"

"It feels better," Alfred replied, encircling his arms about Arthur's neck. Their chests pressed flushed together, Arthur's golden stitches sparking against Alfred's slick and smooth skin.

"I warned you," Arthur said in a low voice, his mouth pressing to Alfred's collarbone. "You ought not... to be so close to me—"

"I want to be," Alfred interrupted, panting. He hung on tightly to Arthur, his body rising and crashing down again with the force of the tide. "I trust you."

"Y-you oughtn't."

"I want to be close to you, Engla—_aah_!" He winced at Arthur's sharp teeth scraping along the bone. "Cease biting me!"

"S-sorry." Arthur removed his teeth with visible effort and rested his chin firmly upon Alfred's shoulder instead. "I am cl-close."

"M-me too," Alfred breathed, clutching tighter still around his lover. "Do... you need something to bite?"

"Mm." Arthur stroked at Alfred's hair, his nails dragging over his scalp. "Get... get the pillow for me."

Alfred reached towards the head of the bed, fingers straining as he was jostled still by their swaying rhythm; but couldn't reach the pillow to grab it, his fingers only brushing the edges of it.

"England, I can't... can't quite—" Alfred cut himself off with a cry of surprise as the room suddenly spiralled and he was shoved onto his back by Arthur ramming his weight into him. "Wait, wait! The pillow, I have not—"

"Sorry," Arthur echoed again, bearing down on Alfred, voice right next to his ear; he sounded exhausted, hoarse, and he stroked Alfred's hair distractedly, fiercely, as he pounded into him. The pace was horribly off now, Arthur weak and using gravity to do most of other work for him; though his eyes were bright, his body didn't buzz beneath Alfred's hands as it did when he was at his strongest—

And he appeared to be losing control over his urges very quickly.

"I am so close," he sighed into Alfred's ear, "and I fear that I... am about to—"

Alfred sucked in a breath. He knew what was coming. Though it was a rare occurrence, this had happened before.

He snatched up a handful of the sheet but didn't force it into Arthur's mouth fast enough; and instead clutched at it in his fist as Arthur inevitably sank his sharp teeth into his shoulder, biting down and bringing blood bursting forth. It hurt horribly and Alfred gave a gasping cry, his back bucking off the bed as he twisted beneath Arthur—

But this was it for Arthur. Just as he did not bleed, he did not ejaculate, his body long past needing such a function; and instead, the height of his pleasure, the replacement for orgasm, was to bite. Their usual practice was to have the pillow to hand (or, sometimes, part of Arthur's latest meal) but it had happened before where he had bitten Alfred, who felt nothing from it other than extreme pain—

And yet not tonight. Though it hurt, the bladed edge of it was frilled with a bubbling pleasure – an echo, no doubt, of Arthur's high (in much the same manner as the shadows of Arthur's pleasure Alfred had been feeling lately). The thrill was cyclical, flowing back and forth between Alfred and Arthur like an electric current; and though Alfred kicked and writhed beneath him, hissing through his teeth at the pain, the coiled spring of pleasure at the knot of his own belly grew tighter and tighter even as he struggled and then, suddenly, he gave another gasp and a long shudder and fell still, panting.

Arthur's stomach was wet with Alfred's expense and he shifted, blinked, and finally unhinged his jaw from being locked into Alfred's shoulder.

Breathing heavily, Arthur sat back, looking down at Alfred in dismay. His mouth was stained completely crimson.

"America, I am sorry," he said wearily. He wiped his chin on the heel of his hand and licked it. "I am insatiable tonight." His absinthe eyes flickered over Alfred's wounded shoulder. "Truth be told, it is all I can do to stop myself from descending upon you again."

Alfred gave a shaky nod, putting his left hand to his right shoulder to cover up the bite in a bid to curb Arthur's appetite.

"It is not your fault," he said faintly.

Arthur closed his eyes for a moment and exhaled, pressing his fingertips to his forehead. For a long moment, Alfred thought he was going to begin apologising again – but, at length, he simply slipped off the mattress, righting his clothing at the bedside. He bent, picking up his own cravat, and tossed it towards Alfred's shivering, naked form.

"I told you not to trust me," he said flatly, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Clean yourself as best you can; I daren't touch you. If you will excuse me."

He crossed the filthy old floorboards to the remains of the soldier, sinking to his knees. Alfred looked away, half-disgusted, as Arthur began to feed again, apparently frantic to quell his need to eat Alfred instead. Pressing the cravat to his shoulder, he sucked in another breath. The pleasure had frittered away, leaving only the sting of torn flesh, and though he couldn't really see it too well, he knew that it was deep. It was worse than anything that Arthur had ever given him before.

He wrapped his shoulder in the cravat, pulling the knot with his teeth, and scrambled back into his clothes as best he could. By the time he was dressed again, Arthur had stopped eating, simply kneeling before his dismembered meal breathing very deeply. Alfred slipped his glasses back on and took up Arthur's jacket and cloak, bringing them to him – but standing a few paces off. He cleared his throat nervously, holding the garments out when Arthur looked over his shoulder at him.

He was hopelessly bloody and his complexion chalk-white beneath it; and Alfred saw now that the green light in his eyes was actually flickering, flaring brightly only to shudder and dull again.

"I will not hurt you now," he sighed. "I haven't the energy."

"I'll help you," Alfred replied; though he nonetheless approached with caution, his shoulder screaming every time the joint moved. He draped Arthur's jacket over his shoulders, observing that he did not so much as slip his arms into it, merely wilting beneath its slight weight.

"This fucking war," he said bitterly, his bloody fists clenching on his knees. "There is so much killing that I cannot keep up with it. I am so full that I cannot even button my trousers and yet remain so weak that I cannot so much as begin to rise. Am I to devour an entire battalion in order to regain my strength?"

"You need your coffin," Alfred said, looping his arm beneath Arthur's back. "Come on, let us return home."

He pulled on Arthur, dragging him to his feet, and buckled a bit as his weight pulled on his wounded shoulder; gritting it out, he took Arthur under his back and under his knees and lifted him.

"What of your shoulder?" Arthur asked, frowning worriedly.

"I will be alright," Alfred replied; though he felt it weeping through the silk cravat knotted about it, blushing red beneath the dead weight of its inflictor. "Come, we shall go through the window. I think you will attract us some unwanted attention in this state."

Arthur sighed, tipping his head back as Alfred carried him towards the window.

"Indeed," he agreed frostily. "I think it may be apparent to all but _you_ that you carry a monster within your arms."

—

Arthur – who had slumped against Alfred in the back of the carriage, half-asleep, his breath rattling in his thin chest – stumbled towards his coffin the moment Alfred put him down, clawing at the lid of it.

"Wait, wait." Alfred pushed him aside and took the bottom of the coffin, dragging it out of the corner of the room and closer to the bed they had shared only that day; he lifted the lid off, the bitter smell of old wood rising from it. "There you are."

Arthur ignored him, dropping to his knees and shrugging out of his waistcoat before slithering into the coffin; it was lined with a simple sheet, as old as Arthur himself, with a ragged pillow propped at the head of it, making it a narrow and impromptu bed, neglected for several weeks now. Arthur wrapped himself up in the sheet, snuggling into with an exhausted exhale, and stilled, settling.

Alfred didn't know what else to do for him other than touch his forehead with his folded knuckles, feeling the thrum of his slow electric pulse against his porcelain skin, and then pull back and put the lid on the coffin, shutting him in.

Alfred rose and went to the bed, collapsing onto it on his back; wincing with a little grunt at the horrible sting in his shoulder. His shirt was sticky, the cravat drenched through with blood, and he gave a shaky exhale as he looked up at the ceiling.

He knew. Of course he knew. He knew better than anyone (he felt) that Arthur was a monster; that he was, really, one of the most dangerous things this war had to offer.

Bleeding out on the bed, it did not make him love him any less.

* * *

It had been an uneventful night, by all accounts. Matthew didn't really know what Francis was looking for – or, indeed, expecting, other than perhaps the Nation to walk right into the bar they had been sitting in all evening. He took a look at his pocket watch, reading the time at a little past eleven.

He yawned, stirring his drink, and glanced at Francis – who was scouring the newspaper, the dirty sheets of it spread out across the table of their private booth. There was a maroon film painted on the inner contours of the wine flute to his right, the residue of several glassfuls.

Francis looked up at him and met his gaze; he looked tired but he smiled nonetheless.

"You are faring well?" he asked in low, pleasant French. "Or does the hour encroach upon your wakefulness?"

"I am rather tired," Matthew admitted. "What purpose have we here?"

Francis shrugged.

"I suppose I was merely being hopeful," he said; he gestured around the bar, which was overwhelmed by the company of women. "This particular establishment attracts ladies of the night and it would appear that they are in the target demographic of the Penny Ripper – the Nation England, as we have agreed."

"Do you think it likely that he would kill twice in one night?" Matthew asked.

Francis frowned.

"I would not rule it out," he said. "The fighting at the front is growing worse and the appetites of Nations are governed thus."

"Then why is he not at the front itself?" Matthew questioned. "Surely it is there that he would be of the most use."

"That," Francis said, "is something which I hope to unravel very soon." He glanced idly back at the newspaper. "I am growing worried that he is not here of his own volition – but is present instead at the insistence of the Empire Army. Should that be the case, I can conclude that he is here on an assassination mission."

Matthew bit his lip worriedly.

"How likely do you suppose that is?" he asked.

"Frankly, I think that it is almost undoubtedly the reason for his presence," Francis replied gravely. "This is the Continent's capital. Many of our important figureheads are here, not to mention the War Office."

Matthew gave a hopeless shake of his head.

"What do we do?" he pressed.

Francis sighed.

"For now, there is not much that we _can_ do," he answered. "With Antonio and Gilbert in Rome, we haven't the option of being in many different places at once and I have little grounds to launch a thorough investigation here. If the Nation is indeed in this town – and I believe firmly that he _is_ – then he has done well to cover his tracks so far. A string of bodies is not enough to lead us to him." He shook his head. "England always _has_ been so very good at disappearing."

"So we simply sit and allow him to kill again?" Matthew asked, beginning to feel a little cross. "That is not much of a solution, Francis!"

"I agree," Francis said gently, "but it is the _beginning_ of one. We must do what we can, Mathieu. That is all we can offer."

On the way home, they came across two prostitutes shivering on a street corner not far from the alleyway in which the girl in the red dress had been murdered earlier that evening. They both looked scared, skittish, huddled close to one another (one in blue with lace edging her low bodice, the other in grey with a higher neck); though resolute, determined to stand their ground and go on with their job, they were clearly terrified that they would be next.

Francis took the both of them, speaking to them in soft and reassuring tones, helping them into the small carriage. Matthew sat, embarrassed, across the box from them on Francis' left, not making eye contact with either prostitute as Francis made pleasant small-talk with them to put them at ease.

They were sisters, long-orphaned, and had known the girl who had been killed in the alley; her name had been Beth and she had frequently ventured alone, believing it to be a better way of securing customers. She had been alone when she was approached by the client who had killed her. No-one had seen her go off with anyone.

Francis paid them in advance, both of them, and bought them for the entire night. Still feeling rather embarrassed, Matthew cleared his throat and passed them in the hall, announcing that he was retiring (to make it perfectly clear that he wasn't going to be involving himself with either one of the prostitutes).

"Good night and pleasant dreams, mon cher," Francis purred after him, ushering the girls towards his own chamber.

Matthew paused. He couldn't help it. He had to say something.

"Two I can perhaps understand." he said coolly, "but to keep them the entire night seems excessive, even for you, Francis."

Francis gave a good-natured smile.

"I told you," he replied. "We must do what we can. A night spent in my bed is a night that they do not have to spend upon the street – where they are prey to those far worse than I."

* * *

Dozing feverishly, Alfred dreamt of bright things, things which glittered strangely and flitted out of his reach like jewelled butterflies; his shoulder gnawed at him even through the skin of his sleep, the pain splintering the images every now and then, and they reassembled quickly but never quite right.

He shifted onto his side and the sting was enough to wake him; opening his eyes, he found himself face-to-face with Arthur, who was lying on the bed alongside him, smiling. He gently stroked Alfred's hair, coveting the gold of it, his expression sweet and serene and a little bit sad. His eyes were back to their fullest green, potent and powerful jade, unbottled smoky forbidden absinthe.

"England..." Alfred paused, feeling how gentle his touch was. "You... are feeling better now, I trust?"

"Much better, my love," Arthur replied. He sat up on the bed. His shirt was unbuttoned down to the last three or so, baring almost his entire chest and belly; and it was clear to see that he was recovered, his time spent in his coffin doing wonders for his being. Some of his circuits, glowing as green as his eyes, blazed clearly through his fair skin like strange veins and a familiar sort of static resonated off him.

"I might have known that you would be too lazy to attend to yourself," Arthur went on; he reached to the bedside for the small First Aid kit they kept for situations like this. "Allow me."

"Too lazy?" Alfred gave an indignant snort. "I am tired only because I had to carry _you_ all the way out onto the street and from the cab into the house!"

Arthur laughed.

"I cannot deny that you are indeed good to me when I need it," he replied. "And patient and understanding, too. A man of lesser character than you would doubtless tried to have run from me by now." His smile flickered amusedly. "I _am_ a monster, after all."

"I care not." Alfred sat up himself, wincing as his wounded shoulder pulled with the motion. "England, it does not matter to me. You have raised me with kindness and affection – you have made a better parent, I am sure, than a great many humans. There are few in this day and age who would take in an orphaned child and take care of him as his own." He shook his head and leaned towards Arthur, nuzzling him insistently. "I do not judge you for something that you cannot help. I will love you no matter how many you kill – or who."

Arthur, pulling out the iodine and some bandages, paused, glancing up at Alfred with genuine curiosity.

"No matter who, you say," he repeated faintly. He pulled the bandage taut for a moment, then wrapped it around his fingers distractedly. "I do wonder..."

"I love you," Alfred pressed desperately. He kissed Arthur's cheek; he tasted coppery, still caked in dried blood. "I'll always love you."

"I know," Arthur replied, though he sounded rather absent. He kissed Alfred's forehead briefly. "I love you too."

His mind was clearly elsewhere, however, as he cleaned Alfred's wound for him and dressed it properly; he met Alfred's eyes and yet wasn't really looking at him. He was sometimes like this, strange and melancholic, but Alfred thought oftentimes that it was no wonder. Arthur was very old. Oh, he had been young once and had been killed – and the life that had been his own therein had ended. He was someone who was, by and large, in the wrong century, in the wrong clothes and living the wrong lifestyle, and Alfred wondered if at times he yearned for the era into which he had been born. The vacancy in his expression at moments like these did indeed speak of a longing for something which was long gone from his grasp – as though he was waiting desperately for it to come back and yet knew, really, that it never would.

"I trust that you are feeling refreshed," Arthur said when he was done, checking his enchained watch over the top of Alfred's head (Alfred cuddling at him rather fiercely, holding onto him as though afraid he would fade and be gone). "It is almost two o' clock and the night is by no means over."

Alfred exhaled, rolling his blue eyes.

"You cannot _possibly_ still be hungry," he said. "Surely you are on the verge of bursting at the seams." He patted Arthur's stomach to punctuate his point.

Arthur gave a cryptic smile.

"No, my hunger is quelled for now," he said. "I am indeed very full and it seems that a few hours of proper recharging in my coffin has settled my irregular urges."

"Then where are we headed?" Alfred asked, leaning back and slipping out of his shirt to change into a fresh one.

Arthur left him, climbing nimbly off the mattress and stepping over his coffin.

"Give me an hour, for I must bathe and change, and we shall hence at three o' clock. You shall find out then." He went to the door, his body moving easily and powerfully, the grace of Tudor technology sparking in the sway of his hips, in the quick and clever motions of his fingers as they curled around the handle. "I have an assignment."

He slithered around the door and was gone. Alfred arranged himself cross-legged on the bed and exhaled, looking at Arthur's empty coffin, the old sheet rumpled from where it had been slept on. Across the town, carrying on the still night, the clock struck the hour – two heavy peals waltzing with one another upon a deserted dance floor.

All of Arthur's assignments were the same, of course. He was England, the only remaining Nation in service to the Empire Army, and he was more than a monster.

He was a machine designed for nothing else other than to kill.

* * *

WELL, IT'S ALL COMING OUT NOW, ISN'T IT? Again, though it is doubtless becoming more obvious, I would like to stress that England is _not_ a vampire (nor is he a zombie/cannibal – though he embodies traits of all three). It's probably easiest to think of him as something along the lines of Frankenstein's creation. :3

It's one week until Halloween and I am SO EXCITED. Unfortunately for my parents, I am done with university as of July this year, which means that I have no more student accommodation/houses to decorate and they must put up with it instead. My dad actually had fun helping me put bloody handprints in the window, spiderwebs on the front door and hallway mirrors, banners all over the front room and bats on the light – my mum is away in Northern Ireland at the moment but I think she's going to be mad when she comes back and finds that we nailed a skeleton and a holographic-changing picture of Dorian Gray up on the wall. XD Just have to get my pumpkin and I'm ready to go!

BTW, is anyone going to London Expo this weekend? I'll be there dressed as Tim Burton's version of Sweeney Todd (which I have been wanting to do for YEARS), so anyone who is going, hit me up!

Thank you for reading! Hope you liked it!

RR xXx


End file.
